Lieutenant Riley
by Silmaewen
Summary: Basically this is the HH series with an extra character stuck in.  Originally, this character was created for an LXG fanfic, but I decided to write the back story first. The romance doesn't come in for a while, I think, but I'm not sure exactly when.
1. Chapter 1: A Mind to Fight

Chapter 1: A Mind to Fight

The new lot were assembled on the deck for the captain's speech. In truth, Riley had no business in calling them "the new lot;" he'd only just arrived the day before. Since the twenty-first of January 1793 – twelve days ago – a general muster had been in effect for all branches of His Majesty's Forces. The great war-gears of the British Empire had begun grinding into motion and it was all because, on that fateful January day, the trouble in France had finally come to a head. Or rather, the losing of a head. For the first time since the days of Cromwell, a king had been executed at the hands of his on people. After that, everyone in Britain knew it was only a matter of time before war was declared. The only question was, who would declare war first.

The Captain stood on the quarterdeck, putting his feet a good half meter above the head level of the crew and in clear view. It was a position of authority, as befitted their first master under God. He was a short man in the younger half of his middle years, but his lack of height served only to condense his presence of command. Both his hair and his piercing eyes were a dark, smoky gray which in no way implied age. There was no hint of the potbelly that oftentimes plagued men over thirty. With the acknowledgement that twenty-four hours was nothing to base an assessment on, Riley considered him a good Captain. He had none of the eccentricities of Captain Thornton. The commanding officer of Riley's previous ship had, among other things, committed the scientific names of every single species of tree to memory and enjoyed reciting the aspects of his favorite species during dinners with his senior officers. But he was an able and affable Captain – managing to keep his men in order throughout the long idleness in Spithead – so nobody minded. And he took great care in the education of his midshipman, for which Riley was very grateful. The traditional lessons of mathematics, tactics, and navigation were supplemented by French and fencing.

"You should always be able to understand what your enemies are saying," Thornton had been fond of saying, "And you should always be able to dispatch him properly when you don't like what you hear."

Unfortunately the practice was not a common one, and the _Indefatigable_ was not equipped to teach fencing, so even if Riley had had the power to implement it he could not have done so. But as it was, he was only a fourth Lieutenant, and all he could do was hope that it somehow came up in conversation with either the Captain or the first Lieutenant, who had just arrived with the new lot. Lieutenant Eccleston. He stood on the quarterdeck, too, along with the rest of the Lieutenants.

The Captain's effortless navy bellow sounded clearly over the men's chatter, silencing them instantly.

"My name is Captain Sir Edward Pellew," He announced, "And I'm here to tell you that your days of idling are _over_."

This was met with much cheering, though the officers were the only ones who really meant it. Discipline was always hard when your men had nothing to do; especially under as infirm a captain as theirs was reported to have been.

"You have a mind to fight?"

More cheers. This one Riley had much less trouble believing; killing Frogs was much more exciting than lying at anchor, even if it was more work.

"That is well for you shall have your fill!"

Pellew gave them a moment to settle down, then continued in a more subdued voice, so they had to be quiet to hear.

"Yesterday, His Majesty received a communication from Paris. The revolutionary government in France has declared war on Britain." His voice began to grow in volume and intensity. "The old adversary may wear a new face, but a _Frenchman_ is still a _Frenchman_, and we will _beat_ him as we have _always_ _beaten_ him!"

Pellew doffed his hat and held it nobly over his heart, eyes on the ship's colors. The Cross of St. George and the Union Jack snapped crisply in the breeze. "God save the King!"

"God save the King!" the men roared. And they meant it. For now.

A few weeks later, Riley had learned the names of all the lieutenants and mids, and a fair chunk of the crew, and had collected a fair amount of gossip. He was turning the latest tale over in his mind now, while pretending to read Plato's _Republic_. Unpatriotic, yes, but it was good to know thy enemy.

According to a man by the name of Williams, the man formerly in charge of his division – a Mr. Midshipman Simpson – had been challenged to a duel by the man now in charge of Williams' division – a Mr. Midshipman Hornblower – because Mr. Simpson rightly accused Mr. Hornblower of cheating at whist. When the time came for the duel Hornblower turned coward and hid, sending his second to fight in his stead. The second, Mr. Clayton, was killed, Simpson was wounded. Williams and his companion had debated hotly whether or not Hornblower had actually turned up at his friend's deathbed, and whether Hornblower had actually attempted to challenge his captain when chastised before discovering that it was illegal to challenge a superior officer to a duel. Riley had heard several variations of the Hornblower-Simpson story, usually with Simpson as the protagonist, and he was trying to discern just what was true and what was not.

What was certain was this; something had been said over cards and a challenge was issued. For some reason, Hornblower did not show up. His second was killed, Mr. Simpson was wounded, and Hornblower almost certainly received a thorough talking-to. Riley thought it unlikely that Hornblower had actually cheated; by all accounts Simpson had no head for mathematics, putting whist thoroughly out of his comprehension, whereas Hornblower was supposed to be quite good. Probably Simpson had lost ingraciously and said something rash. But why should Hornblower make a duel out of it? Simpson seemed to have been generally disliked by his fellow midshipman and feared by members of the crew who had displeased him. That smacked of a particularly unpleasant brand of tyranny. Could it be that the affair of the cards was the last proverbial straw that pushed Hornblower over the edge? Or had he been waiting for an opportunity to get Simpson for some time? If so he was a fool; Simpson was reckoned one of the best shots in the fleet. And why then had he not shown up? Cowardice? It was possible, though if it was so Hornblower had chosen a poor career for himself. But Riley refused to believe that of any man without the evidence of his own eyes, and especially when the evidence of his eyes suggested Hornblower to be and honest, intelligent fellow. It was much easier to believe ill of Mr. Simpson.

There was no need to speak to Hornblower himself about this. The captain had almost assuredly done so by now, and whatever he had said was the final word on the subject. As far as anyone ought to be concerned, it had never happened. Outwardly, at any rate. Mind made up, Riley marked his place and put the book in his pocket. Speak of the devil; there was Hornblower, watching Lieutenant Bracegirdle being trounced at backgammon by Mid' Hether. Bracegirdle cursed good-naturedly at a particularly good roll on Hether's part. Riley grinned and made his way over.

"Well, Mr. Bracegirdle, let us hope you have better fortune at whist," he said, "It will make our table very lopsided if you don't."

Bracegirdle chuckled, "I suspect it will tilt the other way; luck has a way of balancing out."

"Or so you hope."

Bracegirdle was an energetic, good-natured fellow, with a balding pate and a figure a tad on the chubby side. He had a reputation for being easy to talk to and for giving sound advice. He was the third Lieutenant, and therefore outranked Riley, but he wasn't stuffy about it.

"Ha-_ha_!" Bracegirdle exclaimed. He'd just rolled double sixes, allowing him to put two of Hether's pieces on the block and move all of his to his side of the board. Hether winced. Bracegirdle doubled.

"I wouldn't be so cheerful about it," Kennedy said. He was a midshipman with hair that changed from dirty blond to honey-colored, depending on the light, and sparkling blue eyes that were a lighter shade of the color of his uniform. He and Hornblower were mates, and the merry and light-hearted Kennedy balanced out Hornblower's reserve rather nicely.

"Oh? And why not?" Bracegirdle asked.

"It'll put your whist game right out. You'd better lose right now, or you're bound to forfeit more later. Besides," he added in an undertone to Hornblower, "I've backed Hether for sixpence."

Riley had been watching from over their shoulders; he let out a bark of laughter just as Hornblower grinned.

"I'm sure that would be great incentive to throw the game, Mr. Kennedy, but the whist table is mythical. We still need a fourth, since among the captain and the four Lieutenants two are always on watch. But," he leaned in and lowered his voice secretively, "If you find someone to complete our table and Bracegirdle decides to chance it anyway, I will cover you on that tanner."

Kennedy eyed his friend mischievously. "Well, Horatio," he said, "Do you feel like saving me a little money?"

"You should never bet anything you're not willing to lose," Hornblower replied.

"I should be very much obliged if you would, Mr. Hornblower," Riley said, "Your reputation as a player precedes you, of course."

"And what reputation would that be?" Hornblower inquired cautiously, probably remembering the accusation of cheating.

"As a formidable opponent and an excellent partner," Riley replied, "I would anticipate losing a modest sum to you, but I'd rather that than not play at all."

Bracegirdle had been listening in on the conversation. "I wouldn't roll over that easily, Mr. Riley," he said, "I'm sure between us we could give him a good run for his money. How about it, Hornblower? Are you up to the challenge?"

"I accept it with pleasure, sir." Hornblower said feelingly. So, he was a whist enthusiast. Excellent. When a man relishes a game he always makes it more enjoyable for his fellows, and it meant he wouldn't just sit there being intimidated. Being a good partner at whist to his superiors wouldn't hurt his chances at promotion, either, which Hornblower no doubt realized.

Bracegirdle won the game, and despite Kennedy's insistence that he really hadn't been serious, Riley reimbursed his sixpence. About fifteen minutes later, the conversation turned inevitably to politics. Riley was thrashing Hether at backgammon. His eyes darted over the board as he pretended to think, but he already knew what his next move was. He was just buying time to listen to Kennedy.

"…It's as my father told his gillie," he was saying, "'Alright, perhaps some of these people have missed the odd meal or two, but lopping the heads off the nobility's not going to fill their bellies, is it?' Still, that's Johnny Crapaud for you."

Riley made his move. Hether winced.

"Still, you can't blame them for being upset," Riley said, "The French king was an incompetent boob to say the least."

They couldn't very well disagree with that.

"Well killing him is a bit extreme," Hornblower said.

Perhaps they could

"Is it?" Riley said. It was his turn, so he made his move quickly and returned to the conversation. "We killed ours for being incompetent, if you'll recall."

Hornblower shook his head, "With respect, sir, Charles was executed for being tyrannical."

"In what way?" Riley looked keenly at the young midshipman.

"He repeatedly closed Parliament because they disagreed with him and he issued taxes illegally, without the consent of Parliament."

"Louis' problems stemmed from taxes, too, and in both cases the kings were rather incompetent, weren't they?"

"Indeed," Hornblower admitted, "The two are rather similar. But I trust, sir, that you recall what happened after we killed our king."

"I do," Riley mused, "And Cromwell also bears a resemblance to Robespierre, doesn't he? But you do agree that Louis had it coming to him, and that after the revolution they couldn't very well let him live. Alive, he's a rallying point."

"And dead, he's a martyr. But surely you're not defending the revolutionaries, sir?"

Riley laughed. Truth be told he was, but he could not be seen as a Republican. That would be seditious.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Hornblower," he said, "I only meant to say that they were not entirely unjustified in deposing their king. But eliminating the monarchy entirely… well. The only reason America's lasted this long is because the moneyed classes are supplying the government with individual, educated men to balance against the mob. It's nothing short of a miracle that they've found a temporary equilibrium. But the French are killing off all of the gentry, which only leaves the crowd to run things. The masses are by nature incapable of rule: as soon as you get more than thirty people together at once they stop being individuals and become a herd of cattle. All you need is a balmy figurehead like Robespierre or that madman, Marat, to whip them into a frenzy and," he snapped, "Chaos. They'd follow them off a cliff and think they were being led to eternal salvation."

There was a general chorus of "Well said"s and "Hear, hear"s. Riley allowed a little half-smile to play around his lips, breathing an inward sigh of relief. He hadn't lied. He believed ninety-nine percent of what he'd just said, and the other percent was only shading. That was the trick to lying: putting as much of the truth into it as possible. Riley had a lot of experience in deception.

"Hands to quarters! Hands to quarters! Enemy ship to larboard!"

Kennedy froze mid-sentence, Riley and Hornblower mid-laugh. Then all three were running to their posts, shouting at the men they passed to "Look lively!" They raced for the deck, where the two midshipmen each commanding one of the guns under Riley's command. Riley answered to the first Lieutenant, as did the other two Lieutenants who commanded the guns belowdecks, and the first Lieutenant, Eccleston, saw to it that the captain's orders were carried out. If the situation was urgent enough the captain himself would bellow the orders, or so Riley thought. His breath was coming quickly by the time they reached the deck, and it wasn't just because of the run. It was his first action.

He forced himself to the outward appearance of calm and strode purposely to his post. As advertised, there was the enemy ship to larboard. French of course, ship of prey, a bit smaller than the _Indy_ but not by much. Around Riley the last men were rushing to their guns as quickly as they could around men and equipment. Cannon were loaded and being run out to the sound of grunts and shouted instructions and expletives. There was very little talking; even if the men hadn't been concentrating too hard on their jobs, it would have been too hard to hear over the thumps and the creaking of block and tackle and the rolling of cannonballs down barrels. But it was all only a mouse's squeak to the thunder that would be coming, Riley knew. They drew alongside the French ship.

Faintly from the quarterdeck Riley could hear captain giving Eccleston the order, 'Fire as they bare." _Here it comes…_

Eccleston hesitated a moment, checking to see that all the guns were run out. Then,

"Fire!"

"Fire!" Riley echoed. He heard the cry repeated belowdecks and at each individual gun, and half a second later; WHBOOM!! Louder than any thunderstorm, and nearer – right beneath his feet and all around him. Riley could feel his cheeks flushing with excitement and his pulse quicken, try as he might to look aloof. Another split second passed, and the French returned fire. A wooden something not a meter from Riley's position exploded as a cannonball crashed through it, sending knife-sized splinters flying in every direction. Riley's arm flew up to protect his eyes, but that didn't prevent one from nicking him just below the hairline at it whizzed past his head. He knew it should hurt at least a little, but it didn't. Not yet.

The deck of the _Indefatigable_ had been cast into a sort of semi-organized chaos. Bits of debris were flying everywhere, the wounded screamed, the unhurt doggedly, mechanically reloaded and ran the cannon back out for another barrage. _That's what all the drilling was for_, the detached part of Riley's mind commented, _when a man panics, he clings to the familiar._

Riley felt helpless. He was supposed to be maintaining order, but how he was supposed to do that he had no idea. His first instinct was to grab whoever was hanging around and set them to clearing the debris and the few who were seriously wounded, but that was no good; they were in the middle of a battle and there was nobody "hanging around." Fortunately most of the casualties thus far were walking wounded and perfectly capable of making their own way below if they needed to. With nothing else to do, Riley attempted to exude an air of unruffled command and paced as far as he dared from his position near the quarterdeck, surveying the scene and doing his level best to encourage without distracting. A man fell backwards across Riley's path and scrambled to his feet, clutching his bleeding hand. It was missing two fingers. Riley stared. The man did too, for a moment, then asked, in a shaking voice,

"Requesting… permission to go below, to the surgery, sir."

Riley continued to gape at him until his tongue finally remembered how to work.

"Yes. Yes, of course." He stammered. Riley stepped aside to allowed the man to pass, mind scrambling to regain his composure. He was an officer for Christ's sake. He could not, must not lose his equilibrium. No, not for Christ's sake, for the men's sake. The men under his command. The men he was responsible for. He had never fully realized just how deep that responsibility went.

Riley took a deep breath and continued with what he was doing. Hornblower and one of the men from his division – Styles – passed him supporting a one-legged Williams between them. Riley cut off the sickening, panicky feeling before it began to grow. It wasn't as though such injuries were commonplace. Most of the men were coming through with nothing but scratches.

The _Indy_ was pulling alongside the French ship. Evidently Captain Pellew had decided they weren't going to outgun her so they were going to have to board her. Riley loosened his sword in its sheath and went back to his position in anticipation of the order to board. The helmsmen had negotiated the ship close enough for there to be no need for grappling hooks, so they went ahead and ran wide planks over the railings to the other ship, the marines firing a volley to prevent the Frogs pushing them off again. Riley was one of the first over, shouting his lungs out, sword held aloft as a rallying point. He'd already killed one before his mind caught up with him: a Frenchman had leveled a pistol at his chest, but he knocked it aside, slashing the man's hand nicely in the process and forcing him to drop his weapon. Riley ran him through and moved on. By then a good number of the men had made it over and more were coming, forcing the French farther and farther back. Eccleston had come over as well, and as first Lieutenant it was proper for the French captain to surrender – should he do so – to him. Which left Riley to subdue the men belowdecks. He fought his way over to the stairs and led the way down.

It was like an earthly incarnation of hell. The heat of the guns and the scores of men operating them, the stench of sweat mixed with the gunpowder smoke that filled the air and stung the eyes hit Riley like a wall. He staggered at it, a reaction that saved his life. The bullet missed him by a matter of centimeters and hit the seaman behind him. Riley found himself face-to-face with a young lieutenant not much older than he was. The French lieutenant slashed at Riley with his sword and Riley blocked it just in time. Riley made a series of cuts – high, low, left, right - feinted high and ducked under the lieutenant's upraised arm, hamstringing him.

Riley sprang up onto the boarding plank and back over to the _Indefatigable_. Thanks to the advice of a grizzled old veteran by the name of Winston, Riley was not allowing himself to slow down. As much as he'd like to. If he rested now he wouldn't be getting up again in a hurry. As it was, he joined in the requisite three cheers heartily and was almost bowled over by Kennedy in the process.

"Did you see me? Did you see?"

He was addressing both Riley and Hornblower, who had just emerged from belowdecks. Hornblower looked confused.

"Well where were you?" Kennedy demanded.

"What?" Hornblower asked faintly.

"We carried her by boarding!" Kennedy explained excitedly, "I killed two! Well… one, certainly."

"I can vouch for that," Riley grinned. Pretty spectacular it had been, too, involving a ridiculously hazardous dive from the quarterdeck. It was nothing short of a miracle that Kennedy hadn't broken anything, let alone survived, "You're a madman, Mr. Kennedy, I do hope you realize that."

"I will endeavor to remember that, Mr. Riley, thank you." Kennedy threw a joking salute. "But really, Horatio, where were you?"

"I was below," Hornblower said. He sounded very disappointed to have missed his first battle. "Williams… lost a leg, and it took a bit of… discussion to convince Dr. Hepplewhite to treat him before an officer with… an arm wound."

Which meant that Hornblower had had a rather forceful argument on the subject, culminating in the officer in question ordering Hepplewhite to see to Williams first. As well he should: a cut on the leg could kill a man in a matter of minutes if it was in the right place. Heaven knew what kind of blood would be lost when the entire limb cut was off. And unless the officer had been hit in the armpit, which wasn't likely, his wound would keep.

"Good for you, Hornblower," Riley said. Hornblower shrugged.

He tried again. "You did the right thing."

Again a shrug.

"Oh, buck up," Riley said, pleased to find that he sounded very much the knowledgeable superior officer, "Trying to save one of your men is a hell of a lot more noble than killing yourself a Frog or four, even if you don't get as much glory for it."

This elicited a thoughtful, "Hmm," and a slightly less dissatisfied expression. Well, it was something. Riley didn't really expect him to strut around bragging about helping a wounded man when he'd been out of the fighting.

"Did you really get four?" Kennedy asked tactlessly. Riley was spared further comment by the captain's instruction to stop gossiping and report. He excused himself and made his way to the quarterdeck, thankful he'd had the foresight not to return without a report ready. From what Riley had been taught, it had been a good, successful engagement. Nothing to set down in the annals of naval history, no astonishingly low casualties, but a good solid victory all the same. And it meant prize money. Riley reported and received his orders. Temporary command of the French ship had been given to Mr. Eccleston, who would take a minimum crew and deliver the ship and the prisoners to the nearest port he could make and make his way back as soon as possible. Until then, the _Indy_ would be undermanned. But they weren't that far from England, so he shouldn't be gone that long.

Riley's orders were to get the men and the deck back in order aboard the _Indy_, see to it that his men were properly rested, and then get some rest himself. He set them to clearing the debris, which they did cheerfully, taking the opportunity to regale each other with stories of their daring-do.

"… Here, sir, you were there, you tell him." It was one of Hornblower's lot, Stevens. Apparently his audience doubted the truth of his story and he was asking Riley to back him up. "Didn't I get two Frogs with the same bullet, sir?"

"I saw the whole thing, Stevens, it was most impressive." Riley confirmed, "Straight through the first and hit the other in the chest, wasn't it?"

"Well I'll be damned," Stevens' friend said.

Riley wasn't sure it had been the same bullet or not, but it could have been. The timing was certainly right. Anyway, it made a good story. He turned to walk away.

"Begging your pardon, sir," Steven's friend said. Riley turned.

"Ain't I seen you somewhere before?"

"Well, of course you have, man," Riley grinned, "I've been on this ship since the day before you came."

"No, sir, I meant somewhere… somewhere else. Can't think where, though."

"I think you must be mistaken," Riley said politely, and left the man scratching his head. _That was close._


	2. Chapter 2: A Feat of Navigation

Chapter 2: A Feat of Navigation and the Return of Mr. Simpson

The aftermath of the Bay of Biscay found the _Indefatigable_ once again undermanned. A great naval battle had called all the warships of a convoy away, leaving the cargo brigs virtually undefended and easy prey for any British ship that could chase them down. A prize crew was needed for each one taken, which meant both officers and men to be taken from the ship's company. Chadd had been given command of a brig, leaving only Bracegirdle and Riley for the watches, and only a handful of mids remained. When he wasn't on-duty or sleeping, Riley spent most of his time talking with Kennedy or reading. He was never in the mood for backgammon; he was too worn out.

"What are you doing?" Kennedy asked him, sitting down next to him. It was the time of day Riley would have been playing whist, if Chadd or Hornblower had been there. The mess was empty; they were stretched a bit thin on officers, so most of the mids who weren't on watch were catching up on lost sleep.

He didn't look up from his book. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Reading."

"Well, then."

"It seems rather odd," Kennedy said. "Not that you're reading, I mean," he added hastily, seeing Riley's look, "It's just that it doesn't seem like you could have many books to read. It'd be the very devil to fit more than a few in a sea chest, after Norie's _Seamanship_ and all."

"You'd be surprised." Riley said in a tone that intentionally bordered on rudeness. He liked Kennedy, but he wished he would go away.

"What are you reading?"

Riley sighed heavily and read a passage aloud.

"That was… Latin?" Kennedy asked tentatively.

Riley nodded.

"What does it mean?"

He sighed inwardly at the realization that Kennedy was not going to "go away."

"I'm not entirely sure," Riley said, "I'm using it to teach myself the language." He indicated the lexicon on the table before him

"That's… impressive," Kennedy said, "I must have driven my tutor half mad trying to learn that; and he was more than half mad to begin with, so I suppose it's no wonder he ended up in an asylum."

Riley laughed. "Poor man. I hope your father had no trouble finding another."

"Not at first, no. It wasn't until I'd gone through a good half-dozen more that the search became difficult." Kennedy explained. He grinned at Riley's appreciative chuckle. "My father was a businessman of some modest wealth, so he could afford very attractive terms."

"Was?"

"Yes," Kennedy said. His smile slipped a little. "He lost everything just last year and he… ah…" he looked down, pretending to clear his throat. When he looked up he was joking again. "The judge said he had to pay the asylums to board all of those mad Latin tutors and he died of shock."

"Oh." Riley sat up and put the book away. "Archie, I'm so sorry."

Kennedy looked at his hands. "We weren't really that close. He always favored my older brother."

"I'm sure that's not true-" Riley began.

"It is," Kennedy insisted, "Torrence was the one who was going to follow in his footsteps. He did, too; took over the business after my father died. And I was the second son, who got shunted into the navy. Not that I dislike -"

"No, you misunderstand me," interrupted Riley, "I mean you're not telling the truth. You don't believe in your own words."

"Oh." Once again, Kennedy became very interested in the dirt beneath his fingernails.

_Oh, damn, I've embarrassed him. Or worse; offended him._

"Forgive me, Mr. Kennedy, that was impertinent," Riley said, searching desperately for some way to change the subject. "I never knew my father."

Riley regretted his words instantly. Dangerous, dangerous ground, and not much of a change of subject at that. What had prompted him to say such a foolish thing? It wasn't like him to blurt out the first thing that occurred to him.

"No, that's all- really? I'm… I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yes," Riley thought quickly, "He was killed, in America."

"My condolences," offered Kennedy. "Was he a navy man?"

"No," replied Riley, "A lobster. Non-commissioned. My mother never remarried. I joined the navy as soon as I was old enough and earned my commission through service."

"Does it pain you to speak of it?" Kennedy must have noticed his distraction. For reasons unknown, Riley found it difficult to lie to him. He would have to examine that later, when he had time. It could cause some problems

He shook his head. "No. As I said I never knew him; he went off to war before I was born."

"I meant about your childhood," Kennedy said, "Your mother."

Now it was Riley's turn to stare at his hands. "My childhood was not as unusual as you might think."

That wasn't a proper answer, and they both knew it. Kennedy was willing to let it drop, however, and proposed a game of backgammon. Riley accepted with no small sense of relief and brought out the board.

Slowly but surely, the other officers came trickling back. Hornblower was the first, and the most surprising. They found him floating in the middle of the bay in a small boat. The captain of the Marie Galante, the brig that Hornblower had been given to take to port, appeared to have recently been in charge. The midshipman came aboard preceded by the four men he'd brought with him; Matthews, Styles, Finch, and Oldroyd, all crowing his praises. After he reported to Captain Pellew, Hornblower was whisked off to the officer's mess. They put him before the long table. Riley sat at the head of the table, looking very stern and imperious indeed. He gestured to Kennedy, who stood to his right. Kennedy stepped forward.

"Now, Mr. Hornblower," he said ominously. A familiar glint of mischief danced in his eyes. "You will kindly explain to Lieutenant Riley why you have returned in so ignominious a fashion or face his displeasure."

Riley deepened his scowl as emphasis. Hornblower scowled indignantly and opened his mouth to speak.

"Look at him, Kennedy!" Riley dropped the act and chuckled, "I told you he would take us seriously. Don't worry, man. Sit down! And for heaven's sake, tell us what happened!"

Archie sprang forward and planted Hornblower in a seat. The remaining mids gathered round expectantly. Hornblower cleared his throat awkwardly and began.

His first and only real mistake had been to quarter the French captain with his men, giving him an opportunity to issue orders. They didn't have much of a chance to revolt, though, because twelve hours later, Hornblower realized that the ship was holed. When they took her, they'd hit her just as the ship heaved upward, so that when she was on calmer waters the hole rode about a meter and a half below the water line. Hornblower had patched that up as quickly as he could with an old sail, but by then the water had hit the cargo. The cargo of rice. It promptly absorbed the water and began expanding. Rather than lose the ship, Hornblower hauled the Frenchmen out of confinement and had them haul the rice over the side, but by then it was too late. There simply were not enough men to get the rice out quickly enough, and they were taking on water rapidly. About the time the rats starting leaving, Hornblower was forced to abandon ship. After that it was the four men he'd taken with him, the nine Frenchmen, and himself in a jollyboat.

The French captain, who from the first had treated Hornblower was a clueless stripling fool, insisted that they make for Bordeaux, citing its closeness. Hornblower refused, saying that they were heading for England, which would take over a week. This elicited further argument from the Frenchman, and eventually Hornblower was forced to threaten him with bodily harm. After further discussion the captain swore he would do nothing to undermine Hornblower's command of the boat. At Hornblower's insistence, he had his men swear, too.

"How do you know that was what the Frenchman said to his men?" Riley interjected.

Hornblower hesitated, "Well, I didn't."

"That's you're problem, right there," Riley said, "You had no idea what the crew agreed to, and you couldn't possibly expect that the Captain would keep his word. Starting tomorrow, Mr. Hornblower, you and anyone else who cares to join you are learning French."

"Aye-aye, sir," Hornblower said, "If I may continue?"

"Do."

Finch was passing out water one day and sloshed it. He had been carrying the bucket in one hand and a pistol in the other, as a precaution. So the French captain barked at him to use both hands, that the water had to last until they reached England, and did he want them to die of thirst? Suitably chastised, Finch stuck the pistol in his belt. The Frogs jumped him; the Captain grabbed the pistol and pointed it at Finch. Four pistols leapt in his direction. The French captain ordered them to lower their weapons. Hornblower told his men to do as he said. There was some protest, but Hornblower shouted it down. They handed over their pistols.

"I'm sorry, sir," Finch said, "I'm sorry."

Hornblower told him it was all right.

"Thank you, sir," Finch said.

The French captain said that his men wanted to throw Hornblower and his men overboard, but he wanted Hornblower to have time to contemplate on his own stupidity in a French prison. A sort of revenge for the five years he'd spent in an English one. He demanded the navigational charts. Hornblower handed them over. He demanded the compass. Hornblower held out the compass, looked him dead in the eye, and dropped it over the side.

"Fish for it," he said.

The French captain backhanded him across the face. Styles leapt to his commanding officer's defense and started wrestling for the French captain's pistol.

"As you were, Styles!" Hornblower shouted.

"But sir!"

"As you were."

Styles sat back down.

"That was a foolish thing to do, boy," the French captain said, "I might have killed you."

"And forgo the pleasure of crowing over my discomfort?" Hornblower said, wiping the blood from a bitten tongue off his face, "I think not."

"Still, it was a futile act. All I have to do to reach France is turn this boat around 180 degrees and then sail southeast."

"If you can find it."

"Oh, I can read a chart, Monsieur," the Frenchman retorted. He was clearly relishing his highly superior intellect and authority. "I only need the sun and a polestar for reference; a feat of navigation even you might manage."

Many days passed, and they did not reach France. The French captain's men voiced a rather heated complaint, which became a heated discussion, about their captain's abilities. Styles asked what the fuss was about and Hornblower explained.

"Well, where is it though, sir?" Matthews asked, meaning the coast, "He said he'd only to follow the charts."

"So he did," Hornblower said. Shouting in French masked his words, so he could not be overheard even if the captain were trying to listen. "But that would pre-suppose that our position upon the chart was accurately plotted."

Matthew chuckled. Styles shushed him.

Hornblower went on to explain that with nine against five, the odds of the French gaining the upper hand were always favorable, and that it would have been a poor captain who did not take precautions against such an eventuality. Matthews wanted to know were their true position was. Hornblower responded that it was in his head. They had been sailing north, not northwest as the French believed when they had take control. The French captain had simply turned them about.

"So we're going south, not southwest, sir," Styles concluded.

They were. They were therefore sailing parallel to the French coast rather than towards it.

By that point the arguing among the French had begun to grow violent.

"That's Frenchmen for you," Kennedy said, "Ill-disciplined rabble."

"And it cost them," Hornblower continued.

One of the Frenchmen stood and grabbed the captain's vest threateningly. The captain hit him, sending him sprawling practically into Hornblower's lap. Hornblower pulled the pistol from the man's belt and pointed it at the captain, cocking it. The captain pointed his own pistol right back. They were at an impasse.

"An interesting situation, Monsieur," Hornblower said.

"Then Oldroyd sighted the _Indy_'s sail to windward, and the rest you know." Hornblower concluded simply.

"Bloody brilliant!" Kennedy said, clapping Hornblower on the shoulder and grinning broadly.

Riley concurred. "Mr. Hornblower, if I had a drink to hand, I would salute you. 'Fish for it!'" Riley laughed, "Oh, what I wouldn't give to have seen his face just then."

"It was worth the blow," Hornblower smiled as well, "You should have seen him when we spotted the _Indy_: his face was the picture of defeat."

"'An interesting situation, Monsieur,'" one of the mids said with a chuckle.

"Damned impressive," Riley repeated, "Damned impressive."

The French would have to look out for Mr. Midshipman Horatio Hornblower. They would indeed.

It was morning near the French coast. A dense fog bank hung over the water. The _Indefatigable_ skirted the edges of it, wishing to avoid the obscured visibility of the fog.

"Sail to leeward!"

Captain Pellew rushed to the side. "Make sail before we lose her!" he bellowed. The French ship was heading into the fog. The Captain had just enough time to see her name painted in gold on the stern – _Papillon_ – before she disappeared. _Indefatigable_ sailed after her and into the fog.

They stood there for what seemed like an eternity, watching, but all they could see was gray. Gray fog, gray water, formless gray surrounding them on all sides with no sense of shape or horizon. Riley could feel the air hanging over him like a blanket as he gazed out on it, eyes straining to pick any shape out of the amorphous mass. Nothing. More than once he heard the captain curse the fog and agreed whole-heartedly. He couldn't see a thing. Not a single, solitary – there! It was a British ship, aflame, leaning heavily to port. She wouldn't last long.

"Ship to starboard!"

Riley whirled just as the cannon blasts sounded. The shots hit the deck and set men and equipment flying. The all-to-familiar sounds of men screaming and moaning filled the air. The_ Papillon_ moved off quickly before they could return fire.

"She'll hide in the fog!"Pellew shouted over the noise, "After her, Mr. Bowles!"

"Aye-aye, sir." Mr. Bowles said. "Starboard two points!"

"Starboard two points," the helmsman confirmed.

But _Papillon_ was already slipping away.

"We're losing her, damn it." Pellew shouted, bringing out his spying glass. The sounds of men in pain had not ceased during this interchange.

"Siiileeence!" The captain roared. The men quieted almost instantly.

Once again they were scanning the fog, only this time _Indefatigable_ would be on the offensive. Still, it was nerve racking; they had no idea where _Papillon_ would appear. Fog banks were excellent for hiding and lying in wait, but truly horrible for hunting in. Riley's dark gray hair, which was the same color as the Captain's - as were his eyes, though he and Pellew were not related - had come out of its queue during the action. He caught his ribbon just before it blew over the side and tied it back again, more securely, and went back to watching. And waiting. He uttered Pellew's earlier curse on the weather. It was so damned disorienting…

"There she is!" Pellew cried, "Now we have her!"

Just as he said that, they came under fire again, this time from the shore. It had all been a cleverly orchestrated trap, arranged by the French to utilize the fog bank. A British ship would be lured into the fog where the _Papillon_ would harry her and herd her within range of the guns positioned in St. Di and Gaye. It was simple, workable, and would probably cost His Majesty's navy any number of vessels if not eliminated.

"Mr. Bowles, we're in over our heads," the captain concluded, "Take her out of range of their shore batteries."

"Aye-aye, sir," Mr. Bowles said.

By the time they were safely away, the sun had burned off the worst of the fog. The _Papillon_ still lurked within reach of the shore guns. Pellew gave orders for boats to be launched to pick up survivors from the sunken British ship.

Riley was on deck seeing to the remaining members of the lost ship's crew. They were a sorry lot: frightened, bedraggled, most of them totally incoherent. From a boatswain's mate by the name of Stanley, he learned that they were assigned to the _Justinian_; Hornblower and Kennedy's old ship. Riley thanked the man and gave him a blanket.

"Go and see the Steward about some dry clothes and some hot stew," he said, "Osgood here will show all of you the way."

"Aye-aye, sir. Thank you, sir," Stanley said. He knuckled his forehead and relayed the orders to the others from his boat. He had to repeat himself twice before they showed any sign that they had heard him, let alone understand what he was attempting to communicate.

The third and last boat came as soon as they'd gotten the second tied down. The first man up was a dripping officer clutching a blanket. He took in the deck in one great covert sweep, huddling under his blanket, eyes hesitating briefly on each officer as though taking their measure for a new hat. Or a noose. Riley looked away just before the officer's gaze passed over him. Appraisal complete, he sniffed long-sufferingly and shivered, then straightened and squared his shoulders. Riley never would have noticed his evaluation if he hadn't been standing within three meters of the man, watching him. He strode purposefully up to Riley and nodded briefly in lieu of a salute – his hat had not made it through the swim.

"Mr. Midshipman Simpson reporting, sir," he said.

Riley blinked. So, this was Mr. Simpson.

"Well, Mr. Simpson, it will grieve you to hear that unless there are more coming aboard now, you are the only officer to survive the wreck," Riley informed him.

"Oh," Simpson said. He blinked rapidly as though holding back tears and looked at the ground. When he looked back up a single tear was trailing conspicuously down his cheek. Simpson followed Riley's eyes and wiped it off, embarrassed.

Or so he wished to seem. Riley wasn't fooled. He'd seen the way Simpson had looked at the other officers. Still, for the moment it would be better to pretend to be taken in.

Riley said gently, "If you'll go to the midshipman's berth, Mr. Graham will help you find a uniform that fits well enough. Get some food, then report back to me. I'll see to your men."

"Aye-aye, sir." Simpson nodded again and moved off.

Riley repeated the orders he'd given Stanley to the last group of bedraggled men and was instantly approached by Hornblower.

"Yes, what is it, Mr. Hornblower?" he asked.

"Where's Archie?" Hornblower asked in an undertone.

"In the mess, I believe," Riley replied quietly, "You want to warn him about Simpson?"

Hornblower nodded, "How did you know?"

"Let us say that Mr. Simpson strikes me as the sort of man who would use any power given him to its fullest advantages," said Riley, "The idiot went off to find the mid's berth without someone to show him the way. It won't make too much of a difference, but if you hurry you should beat him to that part of the ship. Just don't make a spectacle of yourself."

"Thank you," Hornblower said, and he was off. Riley ascended to the quarterdeck to report.

"Captain Pellew, sir," he saluted.

"Well, what have you learned?" Pellew asked.

"It was the _Justinian_, sir, that we saw. Captain commanding was Keene. I count nineteen survivors all told, one of them a bo'sun's mate, plus one officer. A Midshipman Simpson."

"Simpson?" Pellew repeated. No doubt he too recalled the name from the affair with Hornblower, back before the war had officially begun.

"Yes, sir. The very same."

Pellew nodded, absorbing the information. "After he's had something to eat, report with him to my ready room."

Riley saluted again. "Aye-aye, sir."

"The _Papillon_ jumped us from the fog," said Mr. Simpson. His voice was soft, broken, sensitive. It was a well calculated telling. If the captain was pretending to be convinced, he was doing an excellent job of it. Riley very much hoped he was.

"Every time we thought we knew where she might be coming from, she… she came at us from somewhere else. It was like there were four ships, not one." Simpson swallowed. He grew more upset with every word. "Poor Captain Keene. I was with him when he was hit. Tore… tore his insides out, and…" he began to weep.

_Crocodile tears_, Riley thought disgustedly.

"Yes, yes alright, Mr. Simpson," Pellew said gently, "Please do not distress yourself further."

There was the barest, almost imperceptible hint of sarcasm in the captain's words. Mr. Simpson didn't seem to catch it, but it was enough to convince Riley that Pellew had not been bilked. Conversely, all of the other officers – Hornblower and Kennedy excepted, of course – seemed sympathetic to Simpson. They must have been sheltered; Riley had seen genuinely inebriated beggars act better than that.

Pellew had Mr. Bowles lay out the charts and indicated places as he spoke.

"The mouth of the Geronde," he said, pointing to the mouth of the river, "The _Papillon_ is just here, between the batteries of St. Di and Gaye. You, gentlemen, will go in with the boats and cut her out. Lt. Eccleston will be in general command.

Eccleston took this as his cue to speak. "As you have seen at firsthand, she is a ship of war, well-armed and fully crewed. But we will be attacking her at night, taking her by surprise." He went on to say that they would be boarding her from the ship's boats, and detailed how many men would be brought along. "…Mr. Chadd will command the gig, Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Hornblower the jollyboat. Mr. Bowles."

The attack would commence in the early morning, before dawn and before the fog. Eccleston and Chadd would fight the battle on deck while Kennedy and Hornblower would immediately ascend the main rigging to loose and sheet the topsail. By then having command of the _Papillon_, they would rejoin the _Indefatigable_ under cover of darkness and the beginnings of the fog bank.

"So much for the theory," Pellew said. "Any questions, gentlemen?"

"Sir." It was Simpson. "I would like to go in with the boats."

Riley quickly intervened.

"If I may, sir?" He looked to the Captain for permission to speak. Pellew nodded.

"I think perhaps it would be better if Mr. Simpson were to remain behind," Riley continued. "After all, he has recently been put through a rather traumatic experience at the hands of the _Papillon_, and we would not want to put him in a situation where a desire for vengeance could overcome his devotion to duty. Such a reaction, while entirely understandable, could potentially endanger the lives of both Mr. Simpson and his comrades."

To say this in Simpson's presence could have been interpreted as an insult, but given the stakes it was a conscionable risk. It was a very different sort of revenge Riley believed Simpson would have in mind. He would not have forgotten the wound he'd received from the late Mr. Clayton, on the behalf of Mr. Hornblower, and Kennedy would not escape his wrath either; he had been one of Hornblower's seconds. Lots of things could happen in a battle, and they could be difficult to sort out afterwards.

To Riley's dismay, the Captain said, "If Mr. Simpson thinks he's up to it, I have no objections. Mr. Simpson?"

"I'll be alright, sir," Simpson assured him.

"Mr. Eccleston?"

"We will be glad to have you, Mr. Simpson. You will go in with Mr. Hornblower and Mr. Kennedy."

At the end of the table, Riley could see his two friends close their eyes and sigh softly. Any doubts he might have had about his theory were immediately dispelled. Simpson shrugged as if to say, "No matter."

The officers dispersed to their preparations.

"Mr. Simpson." Riley stopped Simpson before the midshipman could descend belowdecks.

"Yes, sir."

"If anything untoward should happen to any of the men, or officers," Riley added with a meaningful glance at Hornblower and Kennedy, who were leaning on the side, talking quietly, "because of any vengeful impulse on your part, I shall hold you personally responsible. By which I mean that I, personally, will hold you responsible. Do I make myself clear?"

Simpson continued to gaze at his old shipmates for a moment. Then he looked back at Riley, measuring again. "You're name's Riley?"

The question took him aback. "Yes, of course," he responded.

"You're from Plymouth?"

Riley suppressed a gasp of surprise. How…

Simpson read the answer on his face. He nodded slowly, a smile growing on his lips. "I know your mother," he said.

He could not panic. He must not. That would ruin everything.

"I find that unlikely," Riley said, feigning nonchalance, "And even if it were so it would have no bearing on the current situation. I asked you a question, Mr. Simpson: do I make myself clear?"

Simpson sniffed, ostensibly from the cold and his recent immersion in seawater. "Perfectly." He saluted. Just a shade more insolent and Riley could have brought him up on charges of insubordination. But then he certainly would have spoken. "Good day, sir."

Riley had to struggle not to jump the rotten sot and kill him right there and then. Instead he walked stiffly to the side to contain himself. A stain on his reputation like the one Simpson insinuated could ruin his career. But then, Simpson couldn't prove it. Riley couldn't disprove it, but that hardly mattered; he knew perfectly well he had an unimpeachable reputation and was considered a good officer. No prodigy, but a good officer. No one would be inclined to believe Simpson, and if he did tell it would be ample provocation to suggest a duel, which Riley was fairly sure he could win.

_There are plenty of Riley's in Plymouth. It's hardly a small place. No need to upset yourself._

Simpson had been very stupid to reveal his trump card. It only gave Riley more reason to see him dead. He was used to bullying or fooling everybody around him. He could not fool Riley, so he tried to blackmail him. He must not think Riley the sort who could stick a knife into someone's back

_He's right_.

That depended on who's back the knife was being stuck into. Simpson would have to be disillusioned. Hornblower and Kennedy's lives could well depend on it.

"Well," Kennedy said, feigning light-heartedness, "I imagine George here has just given Simpson the threat of a hangman's noose if he misbehaves."

His voice started Riley out of his murderous reverie.

"There are certain advantages to familiarity with superior officers," Hornblower agreed. There was a determined set to his jaw that Riley was beginning to recognize.

"Damn it, Mr. Kennedy, I've warned you about using by surname where people can hear you," snapped Riley. He knew he shouldn't be upset by something so trivial, but it was just one of those times. Kennedy needed the reprimand anyway.

"Yes, sir," Kennedy said, but there was not even the barest hint of impudence in it. No mock-salute.

Riley sighed, regretting his words. He shouldn't have done anything to lower Kennedy's spirits, not now.

"Don't worry about Mr. Simpson," he said. He looked left and right to be sure no one was listening and continued, softly. "If he tries anything I'll either put a noose 'round his neck or a knife in his back, and if he hasn't reasoned that out by now there's something wrong with him."

Hornblower and Kennedy started at that. Hornblower frowned.

"A knife…?"

"How else was I supposed to get through to him?" Riley snapped defensively. "Just don't worry about him, alright? Worry about taking the _Papillon_."

They were looking at him oddly, as though they'd never really seen him before, or he'd just sprouted bananas from his earlobes

"Go rest," Riley waved them away, "you'll have be up early tomorrow."

They murmured their "aye-aye"s and moved off. Riley felt rather than saw their eyes on his back.

_Again and again, nothing but stupidity_, he berated himself, _Was that supposed to be reassuring?_ He leaned on the railing and hung his head, staring sightlessly down at the water lapping against the side.

How had things gotten so out of hand? First there had been that sailor. No, he couldn't really count that; it had been covered up easily. No, it all began during Hornblower's absence. During that conversation with Kennedy, when he began having… what had he been having? Qualms of conscience? No, not that: he had absolutely no difficulty shading the truth for the Captain or the other officers. It was Kennedy and Hornblower, his friends. He could not lie to his friends; couldn't even hide his thoughts and emotions well. That was a problem. He'd come dreadfully close to letting something slip before. What if it grew worse? There was nothing for it: he would have to distance himself as soon as Simpson had been taken care of.

As for Mr. Simpson… Nothing could be done tonight; there wasn't enough time to plan and execute an appropriately discreet solution. He'd be on his guard, so no hope of a simple faked accident or suicide, and a threatening message would likely do more harm than good. _Damn_. And there was another problem: Riley wasn't sure he could kill Simpson in cold blood. He'd never done that before. It was one thing to run someone through in the heat of battle but quite another to quietly and calmly do someone in. Well, that was just too bad. If Simpson tried something and failed, Riley would have to go through with it to protect whoever survived, unless he could get Simpson hanged. If Simpson succeeded, there was no way Riley was letting him get away with it and that was that. End of discussion. But everything hinged on Simpson knowing he was in earnest: revenge never brought anyone back from the dead. He would just have to hope that what he'd told Kennedy was true: Simpson was intelligent enough to figure it out on his own. Riley was unable to drive the point home.

"Begging your pardon, sir," a voice said at his elbow, "Are you feeling alright?"

It was Stanley, the boatswain's mate from the _Justinian_. Riley remembered him as having an unusual amount of self-possession, especially when compared with the others from his ship.

"Yes, Stanley, I'm fine," Riley said, straightening. "Thank you. How are your lads doing?"

That question properly should have been put to Mr. Simpson, but Stanley took it in stride.

"Oh, they're well enough, sir," he said, "Still in shock, most of them, but they're coming through. Some of them have mates that transferred here when the war started, and that helps."

"Good," Riley said. "The Captain has ordered that you be put back to work as soon as possible, so we'll be putting about half of you into Mr. Hornblower's division while the other half will go to Mr. Cleveland. You of course will maintain your position as bo'sun's mate. This will be put into effect at four bells, forenoon watch, so you have until then to rest and recuperate."

"Very good, sir," Stanley said. "Keeping busy gives a man less time to think."

Riley nodded. "That'll be all."

Stanley saluted and moved off.

Riley sighed and straightened his coat. He should go apologize to Hornblower and Kennedy. Mr. Simpson aside, they were going into action tomorrow, and Riley might very well never see them again. But no. This… _attachment_ had to end, for their sake as much as his. Riley's slip of the tongue might be the perfect opportunity to make it so.


	3. Chapter 3: Revenge

Chapter 3: Revenge

It was exactly five bells of the morning watch and Eccleston and his party had not returned. Like almost everyone else on board the _Indy_, Riley was becoming worried.

"Still no sign of the _Papillon_," Pellew said needlessly. "They must have cut her out by now."

Or they had failed, and were either dead or captured.

The call went out. "Sails to windward!"

Pellew's glass was up in an instant.

"My God," he breathed, "French corvettes."

There were three of them, and a third of the crew had gone that morning to take the _Papillon_. The _Indy_ was no match for three corvettes. All she could do was run, but she couldn't get far; corvettes were naturally faster ships. Still, they had to try. Pellew shouted rapid-fire orders, and within minutes the rigging and deck were swarming with men. They brought her about ninety degrees to port and beat a hasty retreat. Ignominious, yes, but the better part of valor is discretion. But no matter how many times they repeated that old saying, it still felt like cowardice.

Then the corvettes caught up, and the truth behind their justifications was brought home. One pulled alongside to port, another starboard, and the other circled around to stern. The _Indy_ returned fire as best she could. Eccleston, Chadd, Bowles, Kennedy, and Hornblower were all gone, which cut a great swath in the chain of command. Riley strode calmly back and forth amongst the men shouting steadying remarks, heedless of the danger. At this point, what happened to him didn't matter much. The small chance they had of surviving lay entirely in the Captain's mind and the men's performance. Or a miraculous appearance on the part of the _Papillon_, but if Eccleston's lot had not returned by now it was unlikely that they would ever be seen again. Riley didn't enter into it anywhere, unless it was to see that the men performed better. Which was why he was strutting about like a madman while a maelstrom of death pounded on all sides in the form of cannon fire and wreckage that threatened to decapitate him or blow him to bits or otherwise lethally render flesh from flesh. It was the only thing he could do.

Over the deafening roar of the guns and the screams of the wounded and the dying, Riley heard someone shout.

"Sir! It's the _Papillon_!"

Heads not otherwise occupied whipped around, searching.

Riley's heart sank. She was flying French colors.

Underneath him, the _Indy_ was beginning to veer sharply to starboard. Pellew must have been trying to muscle his way out and at the same time get a shot at the prow of one of the corvettes. It was a desperate attempt to break free and run, desperate because if any of the French ships got close enough to board they were finished. If they progressed at the wrong angle, there was a chance that the corvette would turn with the _Indy_, bringing her close enough to do just that. Not that it would make any difference if she didn't; it would only delay the inevitable. Riley refused to allow the sense of futility rising in his stomach to creep into his voice. It could only make matters worse.

_Papillon_ was close now. Any second she would open fire. The men aboard her were cheering, probably to taunt them. Her cannon thundered, and Riley allowed his eyelids to flicker shut for a moment in resignation. He opened them again quickly when there was no corresponding impact on the _Indefatigable_.

The _Papillon_ had fired on the corvette to port! She was in British hands. The _Indy_ had a chance now. Eccleston had taken her! Hornblower and Kennedy were alive! A cheer erupted from the men aboard the _Indy_, and they went back to their guns with a renewed sense of hope.

The French took longer to get over their surprise. There was a conspicuous gap in their fire, during which the _Indy_ managed to get a bit of her own back. The French had just begun to renew their assault when a great explosion rocked all of the ships, sending the less balanced toppling and blowing the hats off of those who still possessed them. Even the cries emanating from the surgery fell silent in its aftermath. The sound had come from the corvette that the _Papillon_ had engaged. A lucky cannon shot had hit its powder room, igniting the gunpowder and causing the ship to explode in a ball of fire and fragmented planking. The bit of the prow that remained intact slipped quietly beneath the surface, as though too stunned for a showier departure.

"Poor devils," Riley murmured. Hundreds of men had been aboard that ship, and they were all gone, just like that. Helpless. He shuddered, as did many around him.

The French surrendered immediately. The sudden and violent departure of one third of their force had put the fight right out of them. Threat removed, _Papillon_ exchanged her French flag for the one that, by the Articles of War, she ought to have been flying. Both British ships engaged in the usual victory cheer, but it was more subdued than usual. The fate of the French corvette hung over the companies like a pall.

Riley was seeing to the ruin that was the deck when Hornblower came aboard to report. He made himself look busy, issuing orders here and there, while he eavesdropped on the Captain and Hornblower.

"Timely, Mr. Hornblower," Pellew greeted him. "Timely."

Hornblower shrugged modestly.

"I, ah, take it by your presence that Lieutenant Eccleston is indisposed?" continued Pellew.

"I regret to inform you, sir, that Lieutenant Eccleston is dead."

Riley's voice faltered in its direction to stack all of the cables not currently in use near the quarterdeck

"Lieutenant Chadd is also among the fallen."

Riley drew a ragged breath and went back to work. Both Chadd and Eccleston were good, fine men, but there would be time later to mourn their loss.

"I see," the Captain said after a pause. He cleared his throat. "Who, then, had command of the _Papillon_ during the action?"

It ought to have been Simpson, but that didn't quite add up: the extraordinary performance of the _Papillon_ was not something that Simpson seemed capable of orchestrating. It must have been Kennedy.

"That honour fell to me, sir," Hornblower said matter-of-factly.

Riley dropped all pretense of not listening and turned. Fortunately, the Captain's back was to him, so Pellew did not see. Kennedy had been senior; command should have gone to him. What had happened to Archie?

Pellew apparently wondered the same thing. "How so?" he demanded, "What of Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Simpson?"

"Mr. Kennedy…" Hornblower hesitated, searching for the words. He saw Riley watching him and glanced quickly away, "…was left behind after the boarding of the _Papillon_."

What did that mean? Was he dead? If Kennedy had been killed, Hornblower would have said so, surely.

"And Mr. Simpson?"

"Mr. Simpson," Hornblower repeated. He bit the words off, as if they left a bad taste in his mouth. "I was forced to have him confined to the brig."

"For what reason?" Pellew said sharply.

"During the course of taking the _Papillon_, while I was in the rigging, Mr. Simpson attempted to kill me." He explained. "He very nearly succeeded, and if one of my men hadn't seen me fall over the side and dived in, he most assuredly would have." Hornblower rubbed reflexively at the wound on his forehead, which was still bleeding sluggishly. Previously shed blood stained half his face.

Pellew drew a deep breath. Riley had to sit down. Hornblower had almost died. Somehow, Simpson was behind whatever had happened to Kennedy, too; there could be no doubt of that. He had failed them both. He covered his distraction by pretending to be resting.

"That is a very serious accusation, Mr. Hornblower," the Captain said, "And one I'm sure you would no make without the evidence to support it."

"I have the evidence of my own eyes," said Hornblower.

Pellew nodded, thinking.

"Very well," he said. "Mr. Simpson will remain confined until we've gotten this mess cleaned up, then he will be brought to my cabin for examination. I must warn you, Mr. Hornblower," the Captain added, fixing Hornblower with his incisive gaze, "That without proof you are on very dangerous ground."

"I had not forgotten, sir," Hornblower affirmed.

Again, Pellew nodded acknowledgement. He instructed Hornblower to find Mr. Bracegirdle and to inform him that he was being given temporary command of the _Papillon_. Hornblower saluted and went to seek out Bracegirdle.

The Captain began walking back to the quarterdeck. He paused next to the crate on which Riley sat staring silently into space.

"You know, Mr. Riley," he said mildly, "Eavesdropping on other people's conversations is generally considered dishonorable behavior. In the navy, it is known as 'spying.'"

Riley snapped to attention. "I beg your pardon, sir, I…"

"As you were," the Captain said. A small half-smile told Riley that this was not a true rebuke.

"You were friendly with Mr. Kennedy, were you not?" he asked.

Riley nodded, feeling a lump rise in his throat. "You_ were_ friendly…" he'd said.

"Yes, sir."

"It is always… difficult to lose a friend in battle," Pellew said. "But remember, we do not actually know what has happened to Mr. Kennedy. He may yet be alive. When Mr. Hornblower comes back on deck, you should ask him of it."

"Yes, sir." Riley saluted gratefully. He hadn't thought of that.

Hornblower emerged a short time later. He brushed past Riley with nothing but a dutiful salute.

"Mr. Hornblower."

Hornblower's shoulders stiffened and he turned. There was a bit more military correctness in the action than was strictly necessary.

"A word, if I may," Riley asked.

Hornblower nodded formally, and they went to the side, facing out away from the deck. He declined to look at Riley, instead directing his gaze to one of the corvettes. The _Libertée_. Poorly named, that. Riley examined Hornblower's face. He was distracted but doing his best not to show it. Riley had seen better, but for a seventeen-year-old midshipman Hornblower was doing quite well. He looked away.

"You're angry," Riley said. It was a statement of fact, not a question.

Hornblower's jaw tightened as he nodded.

Riley glanced back at him. "With me."

The midshipman hesitated. "No, sir."

"Horatio…"

"A little," Hornblower admitted, "But less with you than… other people."

There. He'd said it. It stung, as Riley had known it would, but it was better than leaving it unspoken.

"Good," said Riley. Hornblower looked at him in surprise.

"I deserve it," he continued. "I should have gone to the Captain with my suspicions before Simpson had a chance to blink. Events might not have changed, but I should have all the same." Riley watched his friend carefully as he continued. "And when I did not, I let my own personal troubles get in the way of managing things."

Hornblower's eyebrows drew together a bit at that, but he said nothing.

"So Archie is dead, and you very nearly with him." Riley concluded. "And if anyone beyond Mr. Simpson is to bear the blame, I am he."

"Archie's not dead," said Hornblower.

Riley throttled his relief before it could grow. He could not let his hopes rise only to be dashed in a few seconds time.

"Or at least he wasn't when last I saw him," Hornblower amended. "He had a fit, in the boat, and I had to knock him out to keep him from giving us away."

"A fit?" Kennedy had never had any fits before, not that Riley was aware of.

Hornblower explained. "He used to have them, when we served together on the _Justinian_. When I came aboard he hadn't had one for quite some time, but when Simpson returned a few days later…"

Riley laughed mirthlessly. "Of course. So Simpson has inadvertently had his revenge. At least we may be comforted in the knowledge that he hadn't the pleasure of doing the deed first-hand." Small comfort, that, and not in any way sufficient to quench Riley's own thirst for retribution. A thought came to him.

"Or perhaps not," he murmured. Aloud, he asked, "Who told you the boat had come loose?"

"One of my men," Hornblower answered, confused by the apparent _non sequitur_, "Styles."

"And who told him?"

It dawned on Hornblower then. "Simpson," he said grimly.

Riley nodded. "I suspected as much."

They stood in silence for a while, staring at the water. Riley continued to watch the ripples as he said, "You have no proof beyond your own word that Simpson is guilty of attempted murder. You understand, I trust, that when you and Simpson go before the Captain there can therefore be only be one possible outcome."

Hornblower looked at him.

"A duel."

Riley looked back. "A duel which you are unlikely to survive."

"I have an even chance."

"According to you, that's what your friend Clayton said just before he died of a hole in his chest, while Simpson got away with a shoulder wound! Don't delude yourself, Horatio; Simpson's the best and most experienced duelist in the fleet. You won't stand a snowflake's chance in hell."

Hornblower's jaw tightened angrily and he had to look away. He would have to learn to control those muscles, Riley thought absently. They might as well be painting his distress in large, red letters above his head. Hornblower took a deep breath, let it out. He turned back to meet Riley's eyes steadily.

"Don't do it, George."

Riley blinked. "Do what?"

"What you're planning. It's wrong."

"No it isn't!" Riley insisted. Afraid that his vehemence might have attracted unwanted attention, he glanced around anxiously and lowered his voice. "What's wrong is allowing a good man to die at the hands of a bad man when it can be stopped. Even if it means playing by his rules."

"I've always thought that what made the good man good was that he didn't play by the bad man's rules."

"Then I am a bad man," said Riley coldly. "If your good opinion is what I must sacrifice to save your life, then so be it, but if you condemn me for my actions then you are a hypocrite of the first order."

Hornblower didn't understand that one.

"I notice you had no qualms about flying French colors if it won you the battle. Or is it only in the service of King and Country that it is permissible to act dishonorably?"

The midshipman disagreed in umbraged silence. Riley had to restrain the strong urge to rip out the railing he was leaning on and fling it as far as he could out to sea. The foolish boy cared so much about his insipid, prideful idea of integrity that he would allow himself to be killed for it! If Riley hadn't been frustrated and angry with Hornblower, he could have admired him for it. It was so idealistic. And naïve.

"But if you feel you must face him yourself, I will of course stay my hand." He would not lessen Hornblower by compromising his principles, wrong-headed and impractical though they might be.

Hornblower nodded.

"Would the rest of the world thought as you do." Riley sighed heavily. "That will be all, Mr. Hornblower."

He had been dismissed. Propriety demanded that Hornblower salute and make himself scarce. Which he did.

They stood on a beach. It was composed entirely of white rocks, varying in size from the dimensions of a large dog to a man's fist, and set against steep rocky cliffs dotted with boulders and patches of moss. Hornblower and Simpson were there, of course, with their seconds, the surgeon, the men from the rowing crews, and the presiding neutral party. They opponents were in their shirtsleeves to allow easier access to potential wounds. A crisp breeze stirred their hair and loose white shirts. They stood back to back.

"For the last time, gentlemen," the neutral party – the Quartermaster – said. He had put on his most officious voice for the occasion. It rang hollowly in Riley's ears, the voice of an automaton conducting Hornblower to his death. "Cannot you be reconciled?"

Simpson whispered something that only Hornblower could hear. The midshipman started to respond, but the Quartermaster had taken their apparent silence for dissent and continued.

"Very well. You may step out the distance." He looked from Hornblower to Simpson to be sure they had heard, as though he didn't know perfectly well that they had heard, just as he'd known perfectly well that they weren't willing to "be reconciled." He counted out the five paces, and Hornblower and Simpson faced each other across a distance of ten.

"Are you ready?" the Quartermaster intoned. They both nodded.

"One."

Simpson raised his pistol coolly and sighted along the length of it.

"Two."

Hornblower was shaking visibly, face contorted with ill-repressed emotion. There was a vast difference between a duel and a pitched battle, and while Hornblower was many times a veteran of the latter he had absolutely no experience in the former. He raised his pistol quickly. Perhaps for a moment he had thought that if he never raised his pistol, the shots would never have to be fired. Riley refused to allow himself to look away. In just a few seconds the Quartermaster would call "Three," and his only friend in the world would bleed away his life's blood on these white, sea-washed stones. Riley thought there might be something symbolic in that, but just then he couldn't bring himself to care.

Simpson's pistol discharged and Hornblower fell to the ground. Riley was at his side in an instant, closely followed by four of Hornblower's men and the doctor. The Quartermaster looked to Simpson for an explanation.

"I did not say fire, sir!"

"It just went off!" Simpson said, but a blind rabbit would have known he was lying. "It was a mistake, I assure you. Did I kill him? Is he dead?"

Hornblower stirred, and Riley helped him to his feet.

"No you did not!" The midshipman said through gritted teeth. A large red patch indicated that he had been hit in the shoulder, far enough in that it had missed the deadly artery. That was not to say that it incurred no damage. Hornblower let out a cry of pain.

"Mr. Hornblower, you may return fire at will."

Riley almost gaped. The stroke of good fortune had stricken him utterly dumb. Not only had Hornblower survived, he was going to get a clear shot at Simpson. And there was nothing Simpson could do about it.

"Return-?" Simpson said, disbelieving, "I shot him. The duel is over."

"You must stand your ground and take fire, Mr. Simpson."

Simpson looked from Hornblower to the Quartermaster entreatingly. When he looked back at Hornblower he found himself staring down the muzzle of a loaded pistol.

"Don't shoot!" he pleaded. "No!"

He sank to his knees, whimpering and sobbing pathetically. It was despicable.

"For the love of God, please, don't shoot. Don't shoot me! I beg you."

Hornblower was shaking even more violently than before, this time from pain and rage. He hesitated, letting the moment drag out, as if even he was not certain what he would do. He clenched his jaw… and shot his pistol into the air above his head. He tossed it aside contemptuously.

"You're not worth the powder," he spat, and turned his back on Simpson, nursing his shoulder.

Simpson stared after him. "Not worth the powder?" he repeated in outrage. He stood, an expression of unspeakable fury burning on his face. A knife appeared in his hand and he charged Hornblower with a yell, arm upraised. Riley whipped out his sword, but before he could put it to use, he heard a gunshot. Hornblower turned just in time to see Simpson falling backwards, blood streaming from a bullet wound in the middle of his chest. Both he, Riley, and everyone else present scanned the area for the telltale cloud of smoke that would reveal Mr. Simpson's killer.

"There!" One of Hornblower's men, Oldroyd, pointed. Riley followed his arm.

It was Captain Pellew, distinguishable by his hat. He was standing on an outcropping of the rock cliffs that surrounded the beach, along with a Marine guard and a man whom Riley took to be Mr. Bowles. The captain held one of the marine's rifles, which he handed to Bowles. That he should have hit his target from such a distance was nothing short of extraordinary.

"Excellent shot!" Someone remarked.

Riley nodded dumbly.

The_ Indefatigable_ was not the same without Kennedy. Moroseness over the loss of no less than three officers was understandable, but Kennedy had always been the heart and soul of commissioned levity, and with him gone there was no one to break the gloom that hung over the officers' mess for weeks after the Duel. Given the atmosphere, it was unsurprising that both Riley and Hornblower became increasingly withdrawn. Both were more than usually solitary to begin with, the former by practice and the latter by nature. Riley frequently told himself that he was content to this arrangement. He was used to it. And whenever he found himself thinking wistfully of the happy hours he'd once spent swapping stories with Hornblower and Kennedy, he always firmly instructed himself that he was better off alone. It was far safer that way. Most of the time he believed it.

Eventually, of course, things went back to something resembling normality. Bracegirdle had no small hand in that, spending great chunks of time with the midshipmen despite his increased responsibilities. Following the deaths of Eccleston and Chadd, Bracegirdle became first Lieutenant on the _Indefatigable_; Riley was the second Lieutenant, but aside from being superior to two other Lieutenants it wasn't much of a change, and Hornblower had been promoted to Acting Lieutenant. He was a full Lieutenant in all but name; he had merely to pass the examination to make it official. This was another of the many things that Riley was convinced did not matter to him in the slightest.

After a few subtle hints from Bracegirdle, Riley crawled out of his little corner and began to mingle with the other officers again. It was ridiculous to let a few deaths get in the way of his duties. The Empire was at war for heaven's sake: people were dying all the time.

A brief hush fell over the game as Riley took his seat. Hether looked uncertainly from the deck of cards in his hand to Lieutenant Riley. Riley flashed a smile.

"Deal me in," he said cheerfully.

Hether returned the smile tentatively and began to deal. A few awkward titters sounded.

"What is the matter?" Riley asked, raising an eyebrow. "Were you all talking about me behind my back? I could charge you with sedition for that."

Experimental chuckles.

Riley nodded smartly. "Good. You know how much I would _hate_ to see the lot of you swinging from the yardarm."

True laughs. Quiet, but not nearly as uncertain as before. The transition from recluse to conversationalist went smoothly from then, discounting a few minor hiccoughs when Hornblower was present. The Acting Lieutenant began to join the company more and more frequently, which Riley considered to be a good thing. Hornblower couldn't keep to himself forever, any more than Riley could avoid him forever. They would both have to grow accustomed. For Hornblower's part, he made a few motions towards resuming their former familiarity, but it was nothing that could not be easily rebuffed by the proprieties of rank. Riley had not forgotten his earlier resolve to break with Hornblower. If Hornblower wondered why, he made no tangible effort to discover it. Riley was relieved by that, if a little disappointed. It was better this way. Much better.


	4. Chapter 4: Neutrality

Author's Note: This picks up approximately one year after the previous chapters.

Also: I apologize for all the 'New Chapter' things you must be getting. I did some re-structuring of the chapters, so parts of Chapter 5 are now in Chapter 4, and what was to have been Chapter 6 is now part of Chapter 5. So there is about four pages worth of new stuff in Chapter 5. Sorry for the confusion!

Chapter 4: Neutrality

Hornblower was on watch when the jolly boat came into view. A red and yellow flag fluttered grandly from its stern, framing an officer wearing an impressive hat. Hornblower brought out his glass to better ascertain the officer's rank. Bracegirdle stood to one side, awaiting his report.

"Visitors, sir. Spanish colors," Hornblower told him. "A captain among them."

Bracegirdle sent Hornblower to inform the captain. He was too tall to stand upright in his position just inside of Pellew's cabin, so he was forced into a sort of half-bow while the captain interrogated him swiftly.

"A captain, you say?" Pellew asked, shrugging on his coat with the help of his valet. He snatched his hat from the table.

"Yes, sir," Hornblower replied, "In full dress uniform."

Pellew paused on his way out the door. "Then I fear the worst, Mr. Hornblower."

Hornblower frowned and followed the captain as he swept out the door. The worst, he'd said. But the Spanish were their allies. Surely they would not be so fickle as to change sides simply because, for the moment, the French appeared to be winning. Such circumstances were sure to pass. The English would triumph in the end, and anyone who did not know it was a consummate fool.

The Spanish Captain came aboard a short while later to the customary rolling of drums and blowing of whistles. Hornblower stood at Pellew's elbow. Riley stood nearby among the other officers, carefully positioned to hear all that was said. Hornblower, it seemed, was to act as translator between the two captains. The French lessons Riley had been giving him before the Duel would finally prove their usefulness.

The Spanish Capitan faced the English Captain and inquired, politely, "Capitan Pellew?"

Pellew responded by saying, "Oui," but swiftly corrected himself. "Sí."

The Spanish Capitan withdrew a letter from his coat and presented it grandly to Pellew. Pellew accepted it matter-of-factly and glanced at the address.

"How's your Spanish, Hornblower?"

"Not good, sir," Hornblower admitted.

Another gap in his education. Riley itched to correct it, but he'd given up the ability to do so one year ago.

Pellew cleared his throat. "Well, they'll surely understand French. Ask him below for a glass of wine."

Hornblower thought about it for a moment, phrasing the invitation in his mind before saying, "Le capitaine sera honoré par votre compagnie dans un verre du vin comme un expression d'amitié."

_The captain would be honored by your company in a glass of wine as an expression of friendship_, Riley translated automatically. _Well done._

The Capitan replied, politely, "Informez, s'il vous plait, votre _honorable_ capitaine que je dois décline son amiable invitation. J'agis en qualité de envoyé de Duc de Belchite et je dois insister que la letter soit ouverte immediatemente."

_Please inform the honorable captain that I must decline his cordial invitation. I come as the envoy of the Duke of Belchite, and I must insist that the letter be opened immediately._

"He declines the offer, sir, and says that the letter is from the Duke of Belchite," Hornblower said, "He insists that you open it immediately."

Pellew shot a glance at the Capitan. "Oh, does he?" he said, opening the letter. "Does he indeed?"

He looked at the letter, making incoherent mumbling noises to give the impression that he was reading it. Riley wondered if the Captain wouldn't have pretended not to speak French or Spanish even if he could. Setting aside the possibility of miscommunication, it seemed to be a distinct advantage.

"I suppose this means that the Spanish have made peace with France?" Pellew handed the letter to Hornblower to read aloud.

Hornblower perused it himself for a moment and began. "His Excellency, the Duke of Belchite, Grandee of the First Class, Commander-in-Chief of His Catholic Majesty's forces by land and by sea, Knight of the Most Sacred Order of the Golden Fleece."

He paused as though finished with the titles, but no such luck. The Capitan stood proudly as Hornblower continued to read.

"First Minister of His Most Catholic Majesty, Captain-General of Andalusia…"

"Yes, all right, Mr. Hornblower. I think we've quite established our friend the duke's eminence, now what else does it say?" Pellew requisitioned the letter, for what purpose Riley had no idea since he claimed not to know any French beyond, "Yes."

The Capitan took this to mean that they were finished and said, checking his pocket watch, "D'ici… six heures si vous êtes toujours á la portée des batteries lá-bas á Puntalees il sera donner l'ordre dóuvrir le feu."

"What?" Pellew said quickly, "What is he saying?"

Hornblower was still puzzling through the announcement. To buy himself more time he tacked on a phrase that seemed to correspond with the general idea of the sentence. "Um, according to the rules of neutrality-" he stopped. Now that he'd deduced what the Capitan had actually been saying, the implications of it finally hit him. He continued more slowly, "We have six hours before the Spanish start firing on us, sir."

_In six hours, if you are still within range of the batteries at Puntalees, I will give the order to fire_. A fair rendering, but there was nothing there about the rules of- He will give the order to fire?

Pellew was livid. "You tell him, sir…" he growled. He cut himself off sharply and barked, "Damned I I'll let him see he's made me angry! You tell him, sir…" Pellew sniffed and his voice resumed its normal tones. "You know the sort of things I want to say, don't you, Hornblower."

"Yes, sir," Hornblower said, thinking quickly, "We, ah… Le capitaine regréte beaucoup les circumstances qui vou sépare de lui et il… espére toujours avoir le plaisir du votre amitié personnel quelque soit le relation de nos de pays."

_The captain very much regrets the circumstances which separate you from he, and he still hopes to maintain the pleasure of your personal friendship whatever the relations between our countries._ Oh, well done, Hornblower.

The Capitan smiled and bowed, doffing his hat and in the process revealing a rather large bald spot. Captain Pellew made a similarly magnanimous gesture and said in a friendly, polite voice, "Get him over the side. With dignity," he added, and as the whistles and drums set to once more, he turned on his heel and marched to the quarterdeck, shouting to Mr. Bowles that he wanted to be underway within the hour.

Spanish neutrality instantly became a hot topic of discussion belowdecks. Several of the midshipmen, Hornblower among them, contended that the Spanish were cowards and fools, but that the British Empire would win the day despite their disloyalty. But their ranks were divided by the question of whether or not the Spanish would remain neutral or switch sides entirely and fight on the side of the French. Riley thought it likely that they would. That was why he had left, though it had ostensibly been for a breath of fresh air. While his opinions on the matter were hardly subversive, he found it was better to err on the side of caution in such matters. Especially when talking to the midshipmen. They could be dreadfully impressionable. Riley wandered over to the prow and leaned on the rail, thinking.

"Mr. Riley."

It was the Captain's voice. Riley turned and saluted.

"Yes, sir?"

"As you were."

Riley relaxed. Pellew stood at the railing next to him and they both looked out on the water.

"Well, what do you make of it, Mr. Riley?" the Captain asked.

"The Spanish, sir?"

The Captain nodded.

"I think their neutrality will be short-lived," Riley confessed.

"Really?" Pellew said. He seemed amused, or pleased. It was difficult to say which. "So you think they will side with the French?"

"Yes, sir," Riley said. "And I can't say that I blame them."

There were very few occasions on which he considered it acceptable to lie to his Captain. His past came to mind, and a few others. But this was not one of them. Besides, he had nothing to lie about.

This announcement surprised Pellew. "Why is that?"

"They don't really have the capacity to resist either us or the French sir, so their survival as a nation basically depends on supporting whoever's winning," explained Riley. "We can hardly expect them to value our preservation over their own. If and when we are once again the dominant party, I am sure they will return."

"That may be so" Pellew said, "But it is still faithlessness. If Spain and England were men instead of nations such an act would be treachery of the first order."

Riley thought carefully. "With respect, sir," he said, "I think perhaps that one cannot judge a country as one does a man. After all, much more is at stake when a nation speaks than when a man does."

Pellew looked at the young Lieutenant measuringly. Riley did his best not to wilt under his intense scrutiny. Finally, the Captain nodded.

"Well put," he said. A small half-smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Thank you, Mr. Riley; that will be all."

The Captain walked away, leaving Riley saluting with the impression that he had just passed a test he hadn't known he was taking, and with an even greater feeling of respect. It was most disconcerting.

"Wreckage in the water to larboard, sir!"

Riley was on the quarterdeck with Bracegirdle, Cleveland, and Hornblower. Bracegirdle sent Cleveland below to inform the Captain. Hornblower looked through his glass. The ship had once been one of theirs.

"Supply ship, sir," Hornblower reported after seeing the number of barrels and drowned cows floating among the debris.

"Must have been returning to Gibraltar," asserted Bracegirdle.

Captain Pellew came up behind them. "The work of a neutral party, Mr. Hornblower," he said.

Ah, so he'd spoken with Hornblower, too. Riley wondered if the Captain had had similar discussions with all his officers, and if not, why he and Hornblower had been so favored.

"The Spanish, sir?" Hornblower said, alarmed. "That would be an act of war."

Pellew nodded. "I expected nothing less."

Was it just him, or had the Captain glanced at Riley when he said that? There was a sound of shouting from the vicinity of the wreck, and Hornblower's glass flew up once more.

"Over there, sir," he said, not bothering to point, "Survivors."

The other officers followed the line of his spyglass but saw nothing.

"Let me see," Pellew commanded. Hornblower handed him the glass. Pellew raised it and looked through.

"Goodness gracious," he said amusedly, "Unless my eye deceives me… Yes, we have an honored guest."

"Sir?" Hornblower inquired.

"Captain Foster, I believe."

Hornblower looked eagerly at the water. "Dreadnought Foster, sir?"

Pellew snapped the glass shut. "I do not care for such overblown titles, Mr. Hornblower," he said curtly. "Mr. Bowles, bring us up to windward of them."

"Aye-aye, Captain."

They sent out boats to collect the remains of the crew and brought them aboard. The first aboard was a sopping wet officer lacking coat, hat, and shoes. He shook his extremities in an attempt to fling away some of the water and accepted a thick, gray blanket put over his shoulders by an obliging seaman.

Captain Pellew stood on the quarterdeck, legs apart, hands on hips.

"Captain Foster," he greeted the officer.

Foster looked up. "Captain Pellew."

"Welcome aboard, sir."

The exchange was conducted with the utmost of civility, which was clearly meant to hide a general lack of regard.

"I congratulate you on your impeccable timing, sir." Captain Foster spoke with a broad but penetrable Scottish brogue

"An honor to be of service, as ever."

Hornblower seemed oblivious to the false politeness. He was far too concerned with his hero-worship of Captain Foster. The object of his admiration moved closer, so as not to be forced to speak quite so loudly.

"Forgive me if I, ah, forego the usual pleasantries, Captain, 'till I've discovered the use of my limbs?"

It was not a question, but even if it was Pellew could, in politeness say nothing more or less than a generous, "Of course."

Following the general tendency of the pair to meet halfway on all matters of courtesy, Pellew descended from the quarterdeck, followed closely by Hornblower.

"Mr. Hornblower," Pellew said, "have guest quarters prepared for the Captain here. And pass word on to my servant to find some old clothing of mine."

Hornblower nodded in what he clearly hoped was an efficient-looking manner. "Aye-aye, sir."

Captain Pellew returned his attention to Captain Foster. "I would welcome your presence at dinner, Captain."

"I shall be honored to attend, sir."

Riley sincerely doubted the validity of either statement, however cordial the delivery.

Pellew instructed Hornblower to pass the word on to the other officers and exited. Hornblower indicated that Foster should precede him below decks. A crewman offered Foster another blanket, which he waved off.

"Oh, get that off me man; take me to the rum."

As it was intended to, this comment elicited good-natured laughter from all who heard it. Hornblower grinned as he followed Foster down the stairs.

Riley leaned over the railing and commented to him, "I fear the Captain is not among our guest's admirers, Mr. Hornblower."

Hornblower found the idea absurd. "But the man is a legend!" he protested.

"Indeed," Riley said dryly, "But there are some who might consider his methods reckless."

He put a special emphasis on the word 'some,' just to see if Hornblower would pick up on the fact that Riley shared this opinion. If he did, he didn't show it. Hornblower shrugged and continued his descent.

They heard how Foster came to be wrecked that evening at dinner. It was, inevitably, one of the first subjects to be brought up, which turned out to be rather unfortunate for the good Captain Pellew. The table was arranged with Pellew at the head, to his left Mr. Bowles, the Major of Marines, and Captain Foster, and to his right were Mr. Bracegirdle and Riley. As the lowest ranking man present, Hornblower occupied the seat at the end of the table.

"Well," Foster said. He was clearly proud of the tale, as though being blown out of the water was the greatest piece of daring-do ever to be brought to the ears of Captain or Lieutenant. The amount of alcohol he had imbibed might have had something to do with the attitude, but Riley was willing to bet that he would have been like this anyway. "I was merely a passenger on the schooner on my way to Gibraltar to assume command of the _Dreadnought_ when this, this Spanish frigate blocked our path. We were outmanned and outgunned, and should we have run we should certainly have been out-paced."

He somehow managed to make himself seem the superior party, despite that fact that he had been in a much smaller vessel.

Bracegirdle took a sip of wine and inquired, "Did they fire without warning, sir?"

He was probably trying to find some justification for the schooner's destruction; if there had been no warning shot, there would have been less of a chance for surrender.

"They had the decency to fire a warning shot," Foster contemptuously. "The audacity of them; _three_," he held up three fingers, "supply ships taken by the French in as many weeks and now the Spanish think they can do the same? Well, this was one ship they would never take."

The part about the supply ships was all too true. The fleet had been counting on the supplies that the schooner had been carrying. Knowing Foster's reputation, Riley had been fully prepared to blame him for their loss, but upon hearing that they had been set upon by a frigate, he was forced to admit that there was not much that Captain Foster could have done. Though he strongly suspected that there was a bit more chance of escape than _Dreadnought_ Foster cared to admit.

"So," the Captain was saying, "I assumed command of the schooner, gave the order that we should attempt to rake her."

Riley almost choked on his bite of potato. The man was mad! A two-gun schooner taking on a frigate! To precipitate such a confrontation was nothing short of suicide and murder.

"Now, of course, I knew our chances were slim," Foster added before anyone could speak.

_That's a mild understatement_, Riley thought sardonically.

"…but I took comfort in the fact that they would be forced to destroy their prize, and that had I not acted, the schooner and her supplies would _at this moment_ be in the hands of the Spanish."

It was outrageous, utterly irresponsible, and abhorrent. Hornblower thought it was wonderful. He glanced at Riley victoriously and looked to Captain Pellew, waiting for him to contest it, if he dared, or perhaps to praise Captain Foster for his boldness. Riley looked to the Captain as well. As a mere second Lieutenant, it was not for him to directly question a Captain of Foster's preeminence unless his opinion was called for, but if Captain Pellew opened the subject, he might be able to slip his tuppence in on the side. Pellew was leaning thoughtfully on the arm of his chair, a handkerchief held to his lips. He rubbed his upper lip with it, strategizing how best to approach the situation.

"What of the crew?" he said shortly.

"You have a question, Captain?" Foster responded. His tone reminded Riley of nothing so much as a schoolteacher calling on a pupil, but it was just subtle enough so as not to be blatantly offensive.

"I was merely wondering;" Pellew said, more loudly, "How many of the crew did the Spanish take from the sea?"

Riley raised an eyebrow back at Hornblower, who ran his tongue between his teeth and his lip. Obviously the casualties had not occurred to him. They both looked at Foster, along with the other Lieutenants, Mr. Bowles, and the Major.

"I have no idea," Foster returned, "At the time, my mind was engaged in more important matters than arithmetic."

Hornblower's face broke into a wide smile at this, which he directed at Riley. Riley glared. Captain Foster's blithe dismissal had only served to further damn the man.

Pellew had seen the entire interchange from the head of the table and was examining Hornblower from across the table. Hornblower saw his Captain's scrutiny, and his grin began to fade.

"Am I to assume, Captain Pellew, that you would have surrendered?" Foster said.

Pellew had just been privy to an example of the dissension his differences with Foster could cause. He had no desire to aggravate the situation further.

"This is neither the time, nor the place, sir, to discuss tactics," he replied diplomatically.

"Nonsense; we are all men of the sea here." He looked at Hornblower. "You."

"Yes, sir."

"How would you have reacted to such circumstances?"

No doubt this was supposed to be a random selection of an outside opinion, but Riley refused to believe that Foster had been oblivious to Hornblower's preferences in the case. It was a credit to Hornblower that he looked appealingly at his Captain to get him out of this impolitic test of loyalty.

"I think perhaps-" Pellew began.

Foster cut him off, demanding loudly, "Come on, man! Out with it!"

Hornblower shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was engaged in the same internal debate with which Riley had recently been confronted; the choice between honesty and discretion. But being Hornblower, it really wasn't much of a decision.

"I am…" he began, then thought better of it. "I am pleased the Spanish have been deprived of out supplies, sir."

If he had thought this was a diplomatically vague answer, his impressions were short-lived. Foster let out a triumphant, "Ah!" and held out his hand in a gesture which indicated that he thought this pronouncement a complete and total vindication of his actions.

Hornblower looked at Pellew. The Captain radiated disappointment. Riley could see Hornblower's conscience fall down his face and into his belly, where no doubt it would shortly begin to gnaw at his innards. Good.

"I take my leave." Pellew said abruptly. He rose and exited, the others standing politely. Foster toasted his opponent's retreat with a swig of wine.

"As do I," Riley said, and followed the Captain out. Behind him, he heard Foster address Hornblower.

"I fancy you shall go far, young man," he said, "I fancy you shall."

Riley stomped up to the quarterdeck, fuming. "At the time, my mind was occupied with more important matters than arithmetic." _ Oh, and what was it occupied with then, since your duty to your crew had been forsaken? What was your mind occupied with while you floated in the sea for hours with the remainder of that crew? Let's do the arithmetic, shall we? By the size of the wreck, the schooner would have needed at least a dozen, perhaps more, plus the Captain, the two mates, and the cook, and of that only two had survived the wreck with that… that… _Here Riley mentally shouted a number of highly uncivilized things. _Now in raw numbers that's not all that bad, but the percentile? 87.5 casualties. For one schooner of supplies - no, worse that that – to deprive the enemy of that one schooner, which given their current abundance of food would not have made a significant difference! And Hornblower! Siding with him! Of all the-_

Someone cleared his throat. Riley turned sheepishly in the direction of the sound. He had been making rather a lot of noise, what with the pacing.

"I take it by the growling that something has upset you, Mr. Riley?"

It was the Captain.

"Yes, sir," Riley said. "Captain Foster, sir, and Mr. Hornblower."

"Ah, yes," said Pellew. He walked over to the rail, indicated that Riley should do so as well. Riley followed suit.

"Captain Foster can be a very trying man," Pellew began.

"He's a braggart and a bloody fool, sir!" Riley said hotly, "He gets good men killed and is lauded as a hero for it! One of these days he'll be one of his own casualties and then…!" Riley wisely decided not to finish that sentence.

Pellew chose to ignore the near impropriety. "He is certainly very bold."

"I should say so!"

"Calm yourself, Mr. Riley."

Riley forced himself to take deep breaths.

Once he deemed Riley sufficiently subdued, Pellew continued.

"Captain Foster is a man who takes many risks, and he is lucky enough to get away with it," Pellew said, "And for that he has become renowned. We may disagree with his methods, but we should not waste our energy by allowing ourselves to become agitated by them."

"Yes, sir."

Pellew looked at him. "I saw your little exchange with Mr. Hornblower," he prompted.

"Ah… yes, sir," said Riley. He had wondered if this would be brought up. "We spoke briefly, earlier. Hornblower was very much… fascinated by Captain Foster, and I… implied that I considered the Captain's practices to be somewhat rash." He glanced guiltily at Pellew. "I fear I also suggested that you shared this opinion, sir."

"You were correct."

"Yes, sir." What else could he say? It was an odd response, if rather characteristically Pellew.

The Captain spoke again. "Mr. Hornblower is not the first young man to fall victim to Captain Foster's reputation," he said, "And it would be unfair to censure him for it." He gave Riley one of his keen, piercing looks. "The matter should not be discussed unless be brings it up himself.

"Understood." Riley thought it would be intensely fair to censure the boy.

The memory of Hornblower's face as Pellew left the room wavered unbidden before Riley's eyes. Guilt and its companion, self-loathing, were written all over it. After all, was his part in the affair really so earth-shattering? Hornblower had behaved poorly. Young men did that. No doubt he would have reprimanded himself enough by morning to equal any three blistering lectures Riley could sum up, though it would not have been Riley's place to deliver them in any case.

"Very good, sir." Riley reaffirmed, "Now, with your permission, I think I'll turn in." He saluted.

Pellew returned the salute.

"Good night, Mr. Riley."

"Good night, sir."

 The commanding officer of a ship's company of Marines was referred to as 'Major,' whatever his actual rank.


	5. Chapter 5: Rations

Okay, this is the actual, real draft of Chapter 5. I'll probably do some editing later, but these are the actual events which will comprise this chapter. The next one might take even longer because, although it was already half-done, I accidentally deleted the only copy of it. [expletive deleted

Chapter 5: Rations

Captain Pellew considered it a cruel hand dealt by the Almighty that a Spanish anchorage lay just six miles off of Gibraltar. There were nine ships there when they arrived, which made negotiation into and out of the bay tricky. It took them all day to make their way to the port, make anchor, and by the time the two Captains were able to report in to the Port Admiral night had already fallen. The men were in good spirits all that night; ports meant shore leave, and those with and without families had pockets full of money to spend on beer, decent food, and no doubt a bit of female companionship.

Their spirits were considerably dimmed the next morning. Because of the high turnover rate of supply ships in recent weeks, Captain Pellew had been forced to reduce the rations by half. Riley braced himself for rough weather and waited for the rumblings to begin.

Hornblower's spirits were likewise diminished, though in a different way and for a different reason; the Captain had put him forward for the next round of examinations for Lieutenant. The stress was enormous, and did little to aid in his ability to handle a crew with uncertain morale, facing half-rations.

"_It's a gallant British man-o-war lies in Gibraltar Bay – _

_And the jolly-jacks aboard her wish that they could have their say…_"

"A highly appropriate song for the times, is it not, Mr. Bracegirdle?" Riley commented.

"Indeed it is, Mr. Riley," Bracegirdle agreed.

They met Midshipman Cleveland at the top of the stairs.

"The nightingales are in full voice tonight, are they not?" Bracegirdle was pleased with the fact, and rightly so. It was better than the alternative.

"Yes, sir," replied Cleveland, "But Mr. Hornblower has no time for birdsong." He saluted and moved on, in the direction of the singing. Bracegirdle and Riley exchanged glances. One of them would need to have a word with Hornblower about this.

"Shall you or shall I?" asked Bracegirdle.

"I believe I must concede to honor to superior rank," said Riley. It would have been too odd, counseling Hornblower. Besides, Bracegirdle had a bit more than Riley's two years on the boy, and had actual experience to back him up rather than just stories.

Bracegirdle nodded, "Agreed." He headed in the direction of the deck. Riley returned to the officer's mess, singing along with the men under his breath.

"_It is a clear and cloudless night,_

_And the wind blows steady and strong._

_And we have lain in Gibraltar Bay_

_For many a day too long._

_Biscuits one, pease pudding none-_"

The song cut off abruptly as Cleveland delivered Hornblower's admonishment. Riley could here it from the next deck up.

"Acting Lieutenant Hornblower requests a little less gusto on the chorus, _if you please._"

It was anything but a request. Riley shook his head. He could understand being nervous for the examination. He'd been extremely nervous himself, staying up two nights in a row studying. It was nothing less than a miracle he'd passed; he was so exhausted that he had almost keeled over walking into the examination room. Fortunately his mouth had taken over once the trio of Captain's began to question him, and he'd been able to sit back in astonishment at his own breadth of knowledge. But to demand that the men to stop singing so that he could study would have been unthinkable, especially under these circumstances. Most of the men had seen the effects of rationing before; they knew exactly what was coming, and feared it. It was more than just empty bellies and a bit of weakness. It was starvation, and disease, and death. And their options were to sing or weep. Deny them the ability to sing and… well. The consequences were unpleasant.

The singing picked up again, louder than before. Insubordination though it was, Riley thought it wrong to reprimand them.

"_Biscuits one, pease pudding none,_

_And salt-beef only half._

_Our rations would not feed a man,_

_But our officers only laugh._

_Ha-ha, hee-hee, ha-ha!_

A gallant British man-o-war lies in Gibraltar Bay 

_And the jolly-jacks aboard her wish that they could have their say._

_But they must keep their mouths tight shut_

_Although their thoughts be dark…"_

The letter from his mother rested heavy in his pocket. Safely inside his cabin, Riley brought it out and laid it on the table. He lit the candle and brought out a quill pen, inkbottle, and paper. Then he took up the letter once more and broke the seal.

"Dear George," it began, "I trust that you still enjoy excellent health. I am quite well. Yesterday your Aunt Sally…"

It went on in such a manner for about a page. Riley didn't give it much more than a cursory glance; it wasn't anything his mother really wanted to say. When he'd gotten through the code that he had developed specifically for this purpose, the important part of the letter became clear.

_I know you told me not to write to you very often, for fear of discovery, but I just had to tell you. You cannot believe what has happened! Madame Bucksley has died, God rest her soul, and has left me in charge of the House! The Lilac Twins are good and jealous, and serves them right, stealing so many of my customers. What I can't see is how they could have thought that the Madame would let any girl, much less twins still in their prime, replace her. By their own account they attract half of our custom, so why the bloody hell should they be taken off the market! But I won out in the end, having seniority, and a good thing, too. I'm not as young as I once was, and I couldn't have kept it up much longer as a common whore. Now I can make a living off the other common whores._

_Oh there, now, look at that. I'm so excited my language had gone all to rot. But your Mum is getting good at using this secret message thing, ain't she? Keep safe, dear._

This was excellent news. His mother had always wanted to run the Swan, but she'd never thought she had a chance to. Riley was happy for her. He refolded the letter and put it in a box on the table. The unused writing materials were put away; he hadn't needed them. It was dangerous to write these things down, so he avoided it whenever possible. A thing like this, properly sown, could ruin a man's career. Not to mention what might happen if anybody unearthed the rest of it.

Riley was proud of the men. It had been three weeks since the rations had been curtailed; some of the more grizzled sailors were beginning to fall ill, everyone was weaker and more irritable, and there had not been a single complaint. None of the dangerous sort, at any rate; _Soldiers are soldiers, by land or by sea /So it always has been and ever shall be_, as Captain Thornton used to say. Riley would have laid even odds that the Roman legionaries posted along the Gaulish border griped about everything from the weather, to latrine duty, to the good character displayed by their superiors, or lack thereof. It was when they stopped grousing and started muttering that a good officer became concerned, and thus far nothing of the sort had been exhibited among Riley's men. He was delighted. Were it not for the ever-intensifying gnawing sensation in his belly and the fact that Lieutenant Hornblower was rapidly becoming intolerable, he would have been positively cheerful.

It did not help that both officers and men were caught up in a veritable epidemic of irritability, born of almost two dozen days without quite enough food. Riley was less affected than the others, or at least he displayed it less; when he caught himself becoming waspish, he was sure to rein it in. Both the Captain and Mr. Bracegirdle seemed relatively pleasant as well, although Riley suspected that internally they were just as irascible as the rest of them. Unfortunately, Hornblower was possessed of a somewhat lesser self-control, and inaction in the face of impediment did not suit him in the slightest. Every ship arriving at Gibraltar brought tales of the Great and Glorious Captain Foster's exploits against the Spanish, and with that shining example of action – and failure - before him Hornblower could not but feel frustrated. Which did no make his behavior any less juvenile, irrational, and exceedingly aggravating to every officer with whom he came into regular contact.

A constant state of abrasiveness permeated the air about him like a tempest, but he voiced no explicit criticism. Until one afternoon. Hornblower was very fortunate that neither Bracegirdle nor Bowles were there. Only Riley was present, sitting quietly at the mess table and reading Herodotus.

Hornblower stormed in, his jaw tight enough to drum a beat upon. When he saw Riley his lip curled, and he gathered his thunderclouds in the direction of his cabin. This was too much for Riley. He had to say something.

"You seem upset, Mr. Hornblower," he said, watching the young Lieutenant over the top of his book.

Hornblower did not stop, turning to face Riley as he yanked his door open. "Indeed, sir."

"Might I inquire as to the reason?"

Hornblower had to stop, halfway through the frame. "You may inquire, sir," he said, in a clipped, highly impolite tone that was meant to cut of any attempt at further conversation and should never be used when addressing an officer who outranked the speaker. Riley chose to ignore this. Hornblower tried to close the cabin door behind him

"And you may come over here and answer, if you please."

Abandoning all attempts to retreat into his room and probably very pleased to have a true confrontation at last, Hornblower re-entered the mess, slammed the door shut, and stood before Riley at attention. Riley looked up at him blandly.

"You are damned lucky I'm not someone else, Mr. Hornblower," he said. The ill-fed and annoyed part of his mind had long since tied the boy into a German pretzel and thrown him back into his cabin since he liked the place so much. But Riley did his best to smother the impulse "Now, what is it that's troubling you?"

The jaw was really working now. How it managed to do that without snapping a muscle was beyond Riley.

"With your permission, I'd rather not discuss it, sir."

"You do not have my permission," Riley barked, rising, "Damn it, Hornblower, do you have to be so blasted contrary?"

The glared for several minutes, each waiting for the other to give in. Finally, Hornblower stepped around the table and planted himself in the chair across from Riley, arms folded over his chest. He raised his eyebrows.

"You wanted to know what is the matter," he said, "Well, I'll tell you. Please sit down."

Riley sat slowly, marked his place in Herodotus with a strip of leather, and closed the volume, all with an air of quiet control. Inwardly, he was seething, but that would never do. He rarely let anger bubble for long in situations where it could hinder him, and he knew that if he acted calmly, soon he would truly be calm.

"We sit around doing nothing while the Spanish pick off our fleet," he began testily. "We should be out there following Captain Foster's example."

"Captain Foster failed, as I remember it," Riley remarked.

"Better to try and fail than to sit and rot in disease and starvation."

"Is that so?" Riley asked. "And what good, pray tell, will we do the Navy rotting at the bottom of the ocean? No, let me finish," Riley held up a hand to silence Hornblower. The question had been rhetorical. "Our crew is strong enough for combat right now, and it would be folly to throw ourselves away on attempts that are already doomed to failure. The Lords of Admiralty are not stupid, Mr. Hornblower. They know perfectly well that we cannot simply sit and wait for a supply ship to make it through. I don't know what they intend to do; perhaps they will start sending frigates as escorts, or have them come by some other route."

Hornblower looked skeptical. "We're in Gibraltar. What 'other route' is there?"

"We could get supplies from Africa, I suppose. I told you; I don't know. But the point is that a plan will be formulated by our superiors, and until then we cannot go haring off on some wild adventure, especially not with a fatigued crew."

"So you are suggesting complacency?"

"Until I am presented with a viable alternative, yes," Riley said curtly.

Hornblower snorted, but for the moment could find no better retort. Riley excused himself and retired to his own cabin. He closed the door behind him and collapsed into his bunk. He was trembling. Not informing Hornblower that he had rather overstepped the mark, actually allowing him to discuss policy in his presence, was quite possibly one of the most dissident things he had ever done. He brought out Herodotus again to steady himself, then shut the book abruptly. What kind of a coward was he? What sedition could anyone possibly find in his actions? His entire attitude about supposedly mutinous talk was thoroughly absurd… unless someone did take notice, and decided to do some research. Then, oh then, he would be in trouble. But was it truly necessary to be so cautious? Surely His Majesty's Navy desired her officer's to think? It would bear some puzzling. Riley re-opened Herodotus' _Histories_ and began to read once more.

As it happened, both of Riley's predictions about the Admiralty came true. Another week later, the _Indefatigable_ was ordered to escort the transport brig _Caroline_ to Oran for supplies, taking with them a certain Mr. Tapling of the diplomatic service to conduct negotiations. Riley was ordered to see to it he was "comfortable."

Mr. Tapling was a bit on the short side, and more than a bit on the corpulent side, of your average Englishman. Riley was consequently forced to have him swung aboard in what resembled nothing so much as a pair of over-sized canvas trousers, with the addition of bottoms to the legs so that the passenger was able to stand. Mr. Tapling was not at all pleased with this arrangement, and kept up a near constant stream of criticism, interposed with wails of dismay, throughout the entire process.

"Welcome aboard, sir." Riley greeted him when he was finally over the side.

"'Welcome aboard?'" Tapling repeated. He was the very picture of outraged indignation, despite or perhaps because of the fact that the canvas trousers swayed with every movement. "I have never been so mishandled in my entire life. Do you know who I am, sir?"

"You are Mr. Tapling, of the diplomatic service," Riley said.

Tapling seemed a trifle miffed at being unable to inform Riley in no uncertain terms _exactly_ who he was. "Well, at least that's something," he conceded in a singularly aggrieved tone.

"Mr. Riley!" Pellew shouted. "Get that raffle cleared away immediately!"

"Aye-aye, sir!" Riley called back. The men around him chuckled.

"Well help me!" Mr. Tapling demanded.

Once the diplomat was firmly on deck, Riley showed him to his cabin, at which he immediately grimaced.

"Were there no other rooms available?" he asked.

"No," said Riley, which was a lie. "None as good as this one, at any rate."

That was also a lie, but not much of one. There were one or two others that were about the same as this. One was perhaps better, but Riley was sure that Tapling would have found them all equally distasteful.

"I suppose I shall have to bear it," Tapling announced. He squared his shoulders like an infantryman going into battle, sniffed melodramatically, pinched his nose against the smell, and marched in. He closed the door. It made an affronted 'snicking' sound as it did so.

Riley groaned. At any other time, he would have found Tapling highly amusing. As it was, he would have to hope that, like fine wine, Mr. Tapling would improve with age.

The entire ship knew of the crime by the morning after it happened. Morale, it seemed, was not as glowing as Riley had thought. Unless, of course, Bunting was a freak. That would fit with Riley's observations, though such matters tended to be indicative of the general mood of the crew. But Riley had been sure that dissension was almost non-existent. Now he could not be so certain. The whole affair was troubling to say the least.

Riley heard about it from Hornblower. Apparently, Bunting had been speaking mutiny and attempting to seed malicious rumors ever since his mate, Finch, had died of disease and fatigue as a result of rationing. Hornblower given him a second chance, both because he knew that Finch's death must have been unsettling and because he felt indebted to the deceased seaman: Finch had saved Hornblower's life on the _Papillon_, when the then Midshipman had been shot out of the rigging by Mr. Simpson.

But in defiance of Hornblower's benevolence, last night, when the Steward and the Marine Guard snuck off for a tot of rum, Bunting had broken into the ship's larder. He had apparently been under the impression that there was good food down there, and that the officers had been hoarding it for themselves at the expense of their men. He was badly disappointed; all that was to be found in the hold were moldy cheese and stale, maggoty seabiscuits. Hornblower and the Steward had found him groveling in the pebble ballast, weeping pitifully.

This performance did nothing to illicit sympathy. Bunting was promptly locked in the brig until Pellew awoke, at which time he was hauled in front of the Captain, who had given him the harshest dressing down that Hornblower had ever seen. It was decided that he should be put through the gauntlet, a brutal punishment whereby the offender was led at sword-point through the ranks of his shipmates, who whipped him as he passed; to Riley's mind a fate he thoroughly deserved.

At this point, Hornblower had felt compelled to speak. He claimed responsibility for Bunting's actions, saying that he had had trouble with Bunting before and should have dealt with him more firmly.

"You should have known it couldn't work," Riley interjected, "He has to be made an example of, and to be perfectly frank this man Bunting is extremely lucky not to be hanged."

"He might disagree with you," Hornblower replied grimly, "But you're right, of course. All I accomplished was earning myself the 'honor' of leading him through it."

"The gauntlet?"

Hornblower nodded.

Riley grimaced. "He'll never forgive you for that."

"Why?" asked Hornblower, "I tried to defend him."

"Yes, but you turned him in" Riley pointed out, "And it will be your face he sees while he's being whipped. Men like Bunting don't think the way the rest of us do, Horatio. He _should_ be grateful, but the best he is likely to give you is a bit more respect, and believe me you would be extremely lucky to receive it. How much longer?"

"Not enough," Hornblower said. "We'd better go up."

Riley went to the quarterdeck with the other officers, while Hornblower remained with Bunting and the other seamen. When all were assembled, cords in hand, Pellew addressed them.

"This man is a thief!" he announced. He stretched his words out, reinforcing the message with every syllable. "A man caught_ stealing _food, _from the hold_,_ steals from_ _each and every one of you._ Make sure you teach him his lesson. _Any man_ going easy on him will be _implicated__in the theft_."

Pellew glared down at the men to be sure they understood and said, more quietly, 'Carry on, Mr. Hornblower."

"Yes, sir," said Hornblower.

Bunting's shirt was lifted over his head and bundled around his arms, restricting his movement. Riley could see his chest going in and out in equally restricted panic. At least the man was no coward. Hornblower drew his sword and leveled it at Bunting's belly, Matthews doing the same from behind. The drummers set the beat, and they began to move.

They made it halfway through without serious incident. Two man-lengths through the second half, a blow landed across Bunting's face. Mr. Tapling, also watching from the quarterdeck, had been forced to look away several times by then; now he did so for good. Riley suppressed a cringe.

Halfway through the second half, Bunting collapsed. Not wishing to seem lenient, the men surrounding him broke rank and formed a circle, their arms rising and falling repeatedly to rain blows on his fallen body.

"Enough!" Pellew bellowed. "Enough I say!"

The men cleared away, leaving Bunting lying there. All attention went to Pellew.

"I think the lesson is well taken," he said. "From this day forth, the next man caught stealing food from the hold shall _hang from the yardarm_!"

Riley looked around at the faces of the men. He didn't think there would be any further incidents. From their collective reactions to the gauntlet, he judged Bunting to be a severe minority. Poor, stupid bastard.


	6. Chapter 6: Whist, Waiting, and Blame

Chapter 6: Whist, Waiting, and Blame

"This is my fault," said Hornblower. They were seated once again around the table in the Lieutenant's mess, playing three-handed whist with Bracegirdle.

"I should say so, Hornblower," Riley said, examining his hand and the two cards that lay before him on the table, "Did you miss my third-trick discard entirely?"

Bracegirdle glanced at him and stifled a chuckle.

Hornblower clarified. "No, I mean Bunting."

"Oh, that," Riley played a card and watched as Bracegirdle merrily took the trick. He turned his attention to Hornblower. "You are not responsible for what goes on in the man's head, Hornblower."

Hornblower had apparently been mulling this over for some time, because he had an answer ready almost before Riley had finished speaking.

"But I am responsible for the actions of my men, am I not?"

"To an extent," Riley conceded warily. He thought he could see where Hornblower was going with this.

"And isn't it true that what a man does stems from what he thinks?"

"Naturally," countered Riley, "But a man may think whatever he likes and remain blameless, as long as he does not act upon it."

"I think the parson would disagree," Hornblower commented.

"Blameless in the eyes of the Navy. Unless you are suggesting that the King and his Navy are responsible for their men's souls."

Bracegirdle interjected himself before Hornblower could respond.

"Ask yourself this," he said. Both Hornblower and Riley turned to listen carefully; Bracegirdle was always an excellent source of general wisdom.

"Could you have done otherwise?"

Hornblower looked thoughtful.

"No," he concluded, "I don't think I could."

"Then you cannot condemn yourself for not doing so."

Hornblower's brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

Bracegirdle opened with the jack of spades. Hornblower continued to sit there, thinking.

"It's your turn," Riley prompted.

"Oh," Hornblower tossed his card absently out on the table. Riley stared at it.

"What? Why are you…"

"Just play."

Riley did, and Bracegirdle took the trick.

"And the rest are mine," Hornblower informed them, laying his cards out on the table. Riley frowned.

"I'm not sure I see that," he said.

Hornblower grinned. "It is a mathematical certainty."

He proceeded to explain exactly how they had won to a flabbergasted Riley and an amused, if somewhat poorer, Bracegirdle.

They arrived at Oran a short time later. Riley was almost as excited as Carleton, the youngest midshipman; besides the anticipated provender, reaching Oran meant that his interminable relationship with Mr. Tapling was halfway towards its close. The man had but half the right of a sailor to complain, and yet he did so at least twice as much. It was maddening. Riley had been plagued with grievances ever since the diplomat came aboard, firstly, and almost immediately, about the food.

"How dare you serve – serve! It barely merits the word – how dare you give me such measly portions of such revolting… you call this food?" Tapling threw up his hands in disgust, apparently frustrated by his inability to find proper words with which to describe his meal. "I am accustomed to roughing it, Mr. Riley, but this is completely unacceptable."

Riley did his best not to eye Tapling's enormous gut with skepticism at this pronouncement.

"Mr. Tapling," he said, in what he hoped was a polite manner, "The fleet is in dire need of provisions. If you'll recall, that is why you were sent to Oran in the first place."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Tapling, "The sustenance of His Majesty's Navy in the Mediterranean rests entirely on my shoulders. If you do not give me sufficient food, I…" he leaned on his chair and held a trembling hand to his forehead.

"…I may not have the strength to complete my assignment," he concluded weakly.

"I am terribly sorry to hear that, sir," Riley informed him coolly, "And when we reach Oran and find that our travel and hope has been in vain, I am positive that the Captain and crew will be most understanding of your delicacy, and that upon our return to Gibraltar the Admiralty will be similarly considerate." Riley paused to let that sink in. "As much as I would like to prevent such a disappointment, however, I am afraid that there is nothing I can do. What you have been given, Mr. Tapling, is what we have. If you desire better, you may take it up with the Mohammedans."

From then on there were no more direct protests about cuisine, but Tapling continued to mutter darkly whenever his dinner was brought to him. The respite was sadly brief. Accommodations quickly supplanted dining on Tapling's list of dislikes. It began with the bed and spread to the entire room, which he then insisted be changed despite, or perhaps because of, Riley's claim that there were no other rooms available. Rather than be proved a liar, Riley was forced to rebuff all of Tapling's assaults, which occurred more or less every day. If this continued on the return journey, Riley was not sure he could hold himself responsible for his own actions.

After making anchor at Oran, Hornblower had volunteered to command the shore boat. Riley was only too happy to concede the position; as much as he would have liked to see an Oranian fortress-city up close, he did not think it worth extended proximity to Mr. Tapling. They had been gone for three hours now and had spent most of that time sitting on the pier waiting to be approached. Everyone not on watch, except Carleton, had grown tired of watching them and retreated to the mess, where it was comparatively cooler. Those less fortunate were busily drenching their uniforms with sweat. Riley loosened his collar and gazed longingly down at the water.

"Something's happening!"

It was Carleton. He was pointing excitedly at the shore, glass pressed to his eye. Riley whipped his own out and put it to his face, ignoring the burn of hot metal against his skin.

The gates of the city had opened and a man was riding out on a donkey, surrounded by a small retinue of lackeys. A rotund, red-brown figure and a slimmer, blue figure –Tapling and Hornblower – moved forward to meet them. There was some conference, and the gates of the city opened once more. Big, beautiful brown cattle poured out and onto the waiting barge. Riley held his breath as if by moving he could make it all disappear, like some desert mirage. But the cattle remained decidedly corporeal, and were quickly followed by a gang of slaves. They carried bags filled with what could only be some sort of grain.

"They've done it," breathed Carleton. "They've done it!"

Riley snapped his glass shut again and put it in its pouch. _Thank God_. He knew he shouldn't feel this relieved; after all, there was no reason why the Mohammedans would have refused to trade. But still, he felt a great weight lifting from the ship. Carleton asked Bracegirdle for permission to inform the rest of the crew, and Bracegirdle granted it heartily.

Riley's good humor melted abruptly. Something was wrong. There was next to no logic to support his conclusion, and yet... Something was very wrong indeed. This was altogether too much like the night they had first seen a Spanish fire ship.

They had only been on half rations for about a week when it happened. It was late at night, Riley wasn't sure exactly what time. Someone spotted a supplies brig on the horizon. The word had been spread, men had rushed on deck, shouting and cheering. But then, out of nowhere, a flickering orange light appeared on the horizon. It was a fire ship. The use of fire ships had been pioneered by the British, who would light a ship on fire and maneuver it into a crowded harbor, where it would wreck havoc on the helpless ships at anchor. Such a danger was heading for their desperately needed provisions. The escort was too far away, there was nothing to be done. They could only watch as the brig went up in flames.

The current moment of promise was frighteningly similar, and Riley was unable to stave off an irrational sense of foreboding. He stared unhappily after Carleton.

"You may regret allowing him to do that, sir," he told Bracegirdle.

"Why?" asked Bracegirdle light-heartedly, "Do you know something we don't?"

Riley shook his head. "No, sir."

Bracegirdle shrugged and moved off. Riley looked pensively back at the shore.

The heretofore-placid crowd of slaves and on-lookers had suddenly transformed into a broiling mob. Riley looked around to see if any of the others had noticed. None of them had. They were watching the men gather on deck to celebrate, waiting for a favorable opportunity to put them back to work. They would let them have their fun first, though. He looked to the shore. The marines who had gone with Hornblower had formed into a column and appeared to be pointing their bayonets into the crowd.

Somebody had to be told. Riley approached Bracegirdle quietly and touched his elbow.

"Yes, Mr. Riley, what is it?" asked Bracegirdle.

"Try not to seem alarmed, sir," Riley told him, "But look to the shore."

He did. Riley heard a sharp intake of breath.

"Tell no one," Bracegirdle instructed, after beat, "It could be nothing, and there's no need to alarm the crew. If anyone else notices, keep them quiet."

"But, sir, if it is something..." Riley began.

"Then we'll find out soon enough," interrupted Bracegirdle. "Inform the Captain, if you please, Mr. Riley."

"Aye-aye, sir."

He made his way to the Captain's door and knocked.

"Enter," came the voice from within.

Pellew was sitting at his desk, writing. He looked up as Riley came in.

"Mr. Riley," he greeted his second Lieutenant.

"Sir," Riley said, "Mr. Bracegirdle wishes me to inform you of some... potential problems ashore, sir."

"What sort of problems?"

The Captain listened intently had Riley described what he had seen.

"Mr. Bracegirdle believes it may be nothing, sir," he concluded.

"But?" prompted Pellew.

"But," repeated Riley, "The whole affair seems too easy. It's nothing I can explain, really, sir, but I've been worried since before the trouble began, and now..."

"You can't help but feel that the axe you have been waiting for has fallen," Pellew finished quietly.

"Exactly, sir."

Pellew looked down at his papers, shuffled them.

"Very well, Mr. Riley, I believe you," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "Let us hope that for once your instincts are proved wrong."

"Indeed, sir," he replied. Was that a compliment?

"Is the crew aware of the situation?"

"They weren't when I was last on deck, sir. Mr. Bracegirdle has given orders that any who become aware be kept quiet."

Pellew nodded. "Very good. Thank you, Mr. Riley."

Riley was dismissed. He saluted and left.

The deck was quiet, but it was a cheerful quiet. Riley guessed that Bracegirdle must have sent the men back to work.

Not long after, the longboat was spotted returning to the _Indefatigable_, manned only by Hornblower and a rowing crew. Tapling, the Marines, and the rest of Hornblower's men had remained behind and were making no move to bring the loaded barge out to the _Caroline_. Bowles was the nearest to the longboat when it came in earshot, so Hornblower addressed him first.

"Mr. Bowles!" he shouted. Riley heard him from starboard and came over to listen.

Bowles gave Hornblower an odd look. He must have been wondering why Hornblower was not pulling alongside.

"What is it?" he shouted back.

"I must speak to the Captain!"

"Come aboard and speak to him then," replied Bowles, "What's going on?"

Pellew had apparently heard the noise, and was coming up to the quarterdeck where Bowles and Riley were standing. Bracegirdle followed close behind.

"Please tell the Captain I must speak with him!" said Hornblower, which answered nothing.

The Captain stepped into view. "Mr. Hornblower?"

"Bad news, I'm afraid, sir," said Hornblower. Riley nodded grimly and glanced at Bracegirdle. The corner of the first Lieutenant's mouth twitched downwards.

"The plague is at Oran," Hornblower continued, "It could only have struck today, sir."

Various exclamations of dismay sounded among the four of them. Riley could feel the blood rushing from his face. The plague. It was the last thing on earth he'd expected. Pellew said nothing, but his breaths became shorter and he looked briefly at the floor.

"Then they are already dead, sir," murmured Bracegirdle.

"Enough of that!" Pellew snapped.

But Bracegirdle was only too right. If even one of them became ill, it was unlikely that any would survive, or any who came in contact with them. They would therefore have to serve three weeks of quarantine – three weeks since the last case – before it would be safe to rejoin the fleet. Which meant that the supplies would have to stay, as well. Could cows catch the plague? Riley wasn't sure. Irregardless, it would be too dangerous to send any more men ashore to collect them.

"Keep to leeward, Mr. Hornblower," ordered Pellew.

Riley glanced at him. The Captain was quite distracted and, as always, his distraction manifested itself in a manner of speech that was clipped and hesitant by turns.

"Aye-aye, sir," acknowledged Hornblower. "I have a suggestion."

Pellew blinked. "Yes? What is it?"

"The fleet needs these supplies, sir," said Hornblower. "We could serve our three weeks at sea on the _Caroline_ to preserve them."

Riley wanted to applaud. It was the only way they had a chance at getting the supplies. Admittedly, it was a bit of a gamble, but considering how desperately the fleet needed the supplies, it was well worth it.

"It's a waste of time, sir," said Bracegirdle.

Riley tensed.

"One moment, Mr. Hornblower," shouted Pellew. He turned to Bracegirdle and asked, "Do you have something to say?"

"Like as not they'll all be dead in a week, and then you'll lose the _Caroline_."

Pellew considered it. "True," he admitted, "But I must weigh that fact against the chance of supplies, Mr. Bracegirdle, and… at… this… moment, that is of far great importance to this fleet."

Bracegirdle nodded. Pellew was right.

"Very well," the Captain addressed Hornblower, "I appoint you in command of the _Caroline_."

"Thank you, sir!"

"Where is Mr. Tapling?"

"He's ashore, sir," responded Hornblower, "With the Marines."

"Good," said Pellew. "He may continue as your passenger."

Riley looked sharply at his Captain. There had been no need to say any of that. It had all been perfectly obvious. Was Pellew merely trying to delay Hornblower's moment of departure? Riley hadn't known he was so attached to the boy.

"Very good, sir," said Hornblower. If he saw anything odd in the exchange, he didn't show it. "Oh, and sir?"

"Hmm? What now?"

"My books, sir?"

"Books?" Pellew seemed to have forgotten what the word meant.

"For my examination, sir."

It was extraordinary.

"Yes…" said Pellew, "Right. Um…"

"I'll see to it, sir," volunteered Riley. He practically ran belowdecks to Hornblower's cabin, where he began collecting the lieutenant's notes. He picked up a book and a handful of pages fell out. Riley knelt and shoved them back in, then grabbed another book, knocking a third book off the table and scattering loose paper everywhere. He cursed and began to gather those, but in doing so he managed to drop both of the books under his arm.

"Damn!" he muttered. "Damn, damn, damn, damn, _damn_!" He shouldn't be this upset. He shouldn't be this clumsy, either. What was the matter with him?

Why was he bothering to pretend he didn't know?

Riley gritted his teeth and forced himself to concentrate on the mundane. Did he have everything picked up? Was there anything in the mess? Take a deck of cards, as well. Don't trip on the stairs. When he returned to the quarterdeck, Pellew and the others had left.

Riley leaned over the port side and called, "Come a bit closer, so I can toss them to you."

Hornblower looked at him oddly, but complied. It was strange, Riley realized, to ask plague victims to come closer.

_They aren't plague victims yet_.

Riley dropped the books down into the longboat.

"There's some playing cards in there, as well," he told Hornblower, "You'd better keep in practice; you're going to have to win back all the money I'll lose to Mr. Bracegirdle while you're gone."

Hornblower grinned. "Yes, sir." He began an order to his men.

"And remember," Riley added. Hornblower stopped talking and looked up at him.

"If Tapling gives you any trouble, just heave him over the side. You can always say he became ill and had to be sacrificed for the good of the ship."

"I shall bear that in mind, sir."

Riley was merely trying to delay Hornblower's moment of departure. He hadn't known he was so attached to the boy.

As soon as the longboat had come about he turned and paced to starboard. He came off watch in three bells. It seemed to take forever.

The _Indefatigable_ stayed only long enough to see Hornblower's men begin loading the _Caroline_. Riley retreated to his cabin as soon as they were underway. He knew he couldn't stay in there forever, that he would have to put up a good front for the mids. Once he got things sorted out he would return and face the world.

Morale would be at its lowest, that much was certain. Some would have mates among those in quarantine, but for most of the officers and men this would be an unfortunate fact of life; what would hit them the hardest, and it would hit them hard, were the lost supplies. They'd been afraid before, but now it could only be worse. For Riley – and he suspected for the Captain as well – the opposite was true. As an officer, Lieutenant Riley could cope with losing men and the dwindling supply of foodstuffs, though with some difficulty. It was a different thing entirely for George Riley to accept that Horatio Hornblower would most likely die of plague. He'd thought he'd put an end to all that last year. He was wrong.

_Why, oh why did I allow Hornblower to take my place in the longboat?_

Selfishness. He had wanted to avoid Tapling, so he'd jumped at the first chance to unload the civil servant on someone else. If he hadn't, he would have gone shore, been exposed, and it would be him in quarantine instead of Hornblower. Hornblower, who was going to die a slow and horrible death because Riley had been so selfish.

There was a knock at the door. It was Bracegirdle.

"I had thought we were going to play whist," he said. "Have the plans changed?"

Riley shook his head and walked past Bracegirdle and into the mess. He sat down and began to shuffle.

"No," he attempted a smile, "Hornblower has agreed to win back whatever I lose to you, so I have no reason to withdraw."

Bracegirdle smiled back, but Riley could feel the first Lieutenant watching him closely. "Did he really?"

"Well, I promised for him," amended Riley, "But he never actually refused."

Bracegirdle chuckled. Riley presented him with the deck, which he cut.

"How do you play whist with only two people?" asked Riley. "We've never been able to before."

"I learnt it from a fellow in Gibraltar," explained Bracegirdle. "He called it Honeymoon whist. It's very simple."

"You'd better deal." Riley handed Bracegirdle with the deck.

He a tidy sum in the first rubber. Riley wasn't really paying much attention to the game, and it was costing him.

"I wouldn't worry about Hornblower, if I were you," remarked Bracegirdle.

Riley continued to look blandly at his cards. "I thought they would all be dead in a week."

He couldn't keep a note of acidity out of his voice, even if it wasn't strictly fair to Bracegirdle. It was a first Lieutenant's duty to point those things out, whatever his personal opinions, and he was probably right anyway. One week, maybe two, was all the time those poor souls had to live.

"Yes, that's probably so," Bracegirdle admitted. "Its just that recently, I've noticed that Hornblower lives like he plays whist."

Riley looked up. "What do you mean?"

"Do you remember the game we played a few days ago, the one where Hornblower said he blamed himself for one of his men, ah… Bunting, stealing from the hold?"

Riley nodded.

"'You remember that the only way he could win that round was if diamonds split the way they did?"

Again, Riley nodded.

"If they didn't split that way, he would've been sunk anyway, so he assumed that it was so."

"I think I catch your drift, sir," Riley said quietly. "When you play whist, you determine how things must be so that you may win, and assume that this is how they actually are, which is what Hornblower has done with the _Caroline_. You're telling me that because Hornblower usually wins at whist, and because he is treating exposure to the plague like a game of whist, he'll probably some out on top. Is that it?"

"Something like that."

"That's rather scant hope, isn't it?"

"It's better than no hope at all."

"Only if it pays off!"

Bracegirdle raised an eyebrow. Riley sighed.

"My apologies, sir; I spoke in haste. But you will forgive me if I do not use false hopes to soften the fact that I have indirectly caused the death of yet another fine young man and officer."

"Another…" Bracegirdle was frowning.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Bracegirdle, but I am afraid I am very good company this evening," he stood and bowed, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll turn in."

He shouldn't have let that slip. Riley could feel the man's eyes on his back as he returned to his cabin. This wasn't over. Bracegirdle would be sure to bring it up again, and Riley would have to say something.


End file.
